


Minor Offender

by quiet_wraith



Series: Categories of Depuration [3]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Competent people doing their jobs well, Courtroom Drama, Gen, Lawyers, Peacekeepers, Research, The Capitol, War Crimes Trials, Worldbuilding, judges, transitional justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24898612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiet_wraith/pseuds/quiet_wraith
Summary: Michael Wreath is a military judge with the Peacekeepers. Born and raised in District 2, he lives on a military base and sentences whomever he is told to sentence, though the punishments he dispenses are suspiciously mild. But when the government he has reluctantly served all those years is overthrown, he finds himself in a different courtroom, playing a different role.
Relationships: Original Male Character & Original Female Character
Series: Categories of Depuration [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744570
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. Judge

As he read the documents, Michael realized why the ensign wasn’t going to get a trial at all. It would have been highly politically dangerous to have such things read out in court.

_Two Peacekeepers are patrolling a street in the evening. They notice a person walking, and one of them shoots. The other asks, ‘Why did you do that? There’s still five minutes to curfew!’ The first Peacekeeper replies, ‘I know they live ten minutes away, they wouldn’t have gotten home in time!’_

In all his years as a military judge with the Coast Guard, there had never been a case with so many political jokes at once. The ensign had picked her friends poorly. One of them, in a fit of pique over some personal slight, had made a recording of her telling jokes and passed it on to the National Committee of Internal Affairs.

_A major newspaper had an image of Snow visiting a pig farm, but they weren’t sure how to caption it. ‘Snow visits pigs’ or ‘Snow among pigs’ just didn’t have the right ring to it. The editors eventually settled on ‘President Snow, third from left’._

Michael carefully kept his face smooth. He wasn’t the only person in the office, after all.

_An artist is commissioned to make a painting of Snow visiting the outer Districts. When it is unveiled, the censors are shocked. The painting shows Snow’s secretary in bed with Snow’s wife! ‘This is an outrage!’ says the censor. ‘Where is Snow?’ The artist replies, ‘Snow is visiting the outer Districts.’_

Snow’s wife had died before the ensign had joined the Academy. Michael wondered if the search for who had told her these jokes would yield any meaningful results, or if it would end with some inconvenient person being saddled with the blame, as always.

_Snow is worried that the people don’t like him, so he puts on a disguise and walks around the Capitol. He approaches a passerby and asks them what they think of Snow. The person says, ‘I can’t say it out here,’ and leads him down an alleyway. Eventually, they lean over and whisper, ‘I support Snow!’_

_A pensioner stops at the same kiosk each morning and buys a newspaper. Each time, they look at the front page, sigh, and throw it away. The cashier asks why. The pensioner explains they’re looking for an obituary. The cashier says, ‘What are you talking about? They don’t print obituaries on the front page!’ The pensioner says, ‘Oh, this one, they will.’_

_Two workers in a wheelchair factory have a child who’s a paraplegic, but the queue to receive one is too long and they can’t afford bribes. So, they resolve to steal the parts over time and build it in their apartment. But it seemed that every time they tried, it would end up as an armored jeep._

_What were the dissident poet’s last words before their suicide? ‘Don’t shoot!’_

This was simply too much. Nobody had been shot for a joke since the last purge, but this was definitely borderline. Michael didn’t want to sentence the idiotic ensign to death, but given how many jokes there were, he was beginning to suspect that there simply wouldn’t be any wiggle room.

_A person hears a car pull up to their driveway in the middle of the night, followed by the sound of breaking glass, and starts to panic. As they're in the process of burning their diary, they're confronted by a masked person in black. ‘Don't worry, friend,’ the intruder replies, ‘I'm only a burglar.’_

_Two people are cellmates in a secret prison, and they start talking about why they were imprisoned. One says, ‘I used a newspaper with Snow’s photo to wrap fish, so I got five years. You?’ The other one replies, ‘I’m a plumber. I was hired to fix a pipe in the Administration. I took one look at the pipes and said that the entire system needs replacing, so they gave me forced labour in perpetuity.’_

_A person has their friend over, and they start complaining about the government. At one point, the person steps out of the room and orders a pizza. They are told that it will arrive in half an hour. They go back into the room and continue talking. Fifteen minutes later, the person leans towards the lamp and says, ‘Colonel, could you please get us a pizza in fifteen minutes?’ The friend laughs, but fifteen minutes later, when the pizza arrives, they are horrified and don’t want to talk anymore. In the morning, they’re not there. The person calls the NCIA, confused. ‘But why didn’t you take me, too?’ they ask. The officer replies, ‘The Colonel liked that bit with the lamp.’_

_Shortly after the Dark Days, a person in Nine applies for a government job. They are asked what they did before, and they explain that they were a farmer and grew wheat. Then, they are asked if they were a member of any bandit groups. ‘No,’ says the farmer, ‘this will be my first one.’_

_Due to the fact that it is forbidden to open one’s mouth, dentists in Panem have developed a technique of extracting teeth through the nose._

_A group of rabbits arrives at a town in the Wilds and asks for refuge. ‘All giraffes are supposed to be rounded up,’ they tell the people. When people point out that they’re not giraffes, the rabbits say, ‘Just try to explain that to the NCIA!’_

Usually, political sentences had to be agreed on with higher authority, but in this case, Michael simply didn’t want to kill the foolish ensign. He took the pre-written judgement, picked up a pen, and wrote in the sentence at the bottom. She would never tell another joke again.

_Ensign Tamara Stone is hereby sentenced to the Avox condition. Signed, Judge Michael Wreath._

* * *

“Hey, Wreath, the Reaping is on soon!” Teck said, leaning into the office. His fellow military judge looked more anxious than she had ever been in the few weeks that he had known her. She had been stationed in the Capitol for decades before being transferred to the Coast Guard. Beyond that, he didn’t know much about the middle-aged paunchy woman, other than that she had grown up on the streets of a large city and liked to eat, and that she had shown a dab hand with research when serving as a prosecutor earlier on in her career.

“I have paperwork,” Michael replied. The office was empty, and he wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet. While everyone was officially supposed to work as always and watch the recap in the evening, every desk worker would be watching it live, if only for the chance to not work for a few hours. “There’s a television right there,” he said, pointing to the small muted screen in the corner. At the moment, it was showing ads.

“Look, it’s the Games, the one point in the year where we can be behind on paperwork,” Teck insisted, looking like she was trying not to fidget. “And it’s patriotic,” she added weakly. In the Coast Guard, the word ‘patriotism’ had less strength the higher up in the hierarchy one was.

Michael watched Teck for a few seconds. She did look extremely nervous about something, and he could always continue work in the lounge. “Very well, then,” he said, gathering his things and standing up. “Our lounge?”

“Do you think I want to inhabit the same universe as the off-duty officers, much less the same room? Of course, the lounge.” Military Court CS1 was the only place where Coast Guard Peacekeepers were court-martialed and attempted defectors by sea - sentenced, which meant that the staff was massive. They, however, tended to disagree with Teck, and used the Games as a rare opportunity to socialize freely with subordinates, if only for a little while. Usually, by the time the Games actually started, the lounge was full once more.

They walked down the corridors, Teck practically shaking from nervousness. “Is something wrong?” Michael asked. “You seem tense.”

“It’s the Reaping,” Teck said by means of explanation. 

“It’s just the Reaping,” Michael pointed out. “We’ve had seventy-three already. You’ve seen, what, thirty-five? Forty? It’s the same every year.”

Teck sighed. “When I was eighteen, I was first-ranked for a few months,” she said in a quiet voice as they walked into the empty lounge. “Strange. I thought there would be more people.”

First-ranked? She must have been referring to the Games Academy. He hadn’t suspected that. The gossip mill could usually be counted on to provide such information, but not a word had been breathed about that. “You worry for the girl from Two?” Michael guessed as they made a beeline for the snacks which had been laid out on a small table. There was enough for about ten people. The part of Michael that was still the upper-class boy from the dirt-poor town wanted to run off and tell everyone about the free food, but he was not that boy anymore, jabbering in one accent - to his parents and in another - to his friends. The others also had their snacks, if not quite so high-end.

“Yes,” Teck said with some relief. She, too, spoke in the standard upper-class Capitol accent, which was much smoother than the exaggerated tones television personalities put on. “I should have been her back then, and always relate a bit too much. I can’t even watch the interviews, I keep on thinking about what I would have done or said.” As the television started to show the last-minute preparations, she poured some honey into her tea and placed a few small sandwiches and sweets onto her plate. “And the Reaping itself is just painful.”

Michael likewise loaded up on small sandwiches, as well as strange fruit that must have come from One’s greenhouses. Only the best for Games viewings, and only the best of the best for those of high rank, like Teck and himself. “If I may ask, why did you not volunteer?” he asked, putting his plate on the table and pouring himself some tea, which was of a much higher quality than usual.

“Concussion. I was back to normal within weeks, but the instructors didn’t want to risk it. As soon as I was released from hospital, the Peacekeeper academy it was.” Teck looked around the table before putting several tarts on her plate. “This is just as good as in the Capitol!” she said, taking a large slice of pie.

Amused at his colleague’s incredulity, Michael placed a small cupcake on his plate and set off for the couch. “We’re not any worse than the Capitol here in Cuba!” he insisted jokingly. While he and Teck weren’t exactly friends, as they had only known each other for a few weeks, they were closer to friends than not friends.

“You forget, I’m one of you now!” Teck sat down half a metre away from him and ate a small sandwich in one bite. “The only reason to like Games season - the food,” she said with a grin. Michael noticed that her pockets were full of foil-wrapped candies. What the rumour mill did know about Teck was that she was a food hoarder - a not unusual affliction for a onetime street child.

During the last Purge, people had been shot for less than that joke. Teck had to know that. “I can’t believe a former first-ranked candidate says that,” Michael playfully retorted, spearing a piece of kiwi with a fork and taking a small bite. It tasted delicious. “Though I see your point.”

“Taste it, more like.” Teck took a sip of tea. She projected total calm, but Michael could see she was tense. “I think they’re starting soon,” she said, looking at the clock. 

“I’ve never met someone who made it to the last year before,” Michael said, trying to fill the silence. “What was it like?” He himself had not made it into the Games Academy, but plenty of his comrades had been there for a year or two. “How did you even go into law?” After so many years of being taught hand-to-hand, the candidates were too valuable to be used for brain work. Nearly all ended up as boots on the ground in outer District cities, putting down the sparks of rebellion.

“I told you, concussion,” Teck explained, eyes glued to the screen which was showing nothing but ads. “As I recovered, the doctors had me do schoolwork to assess my progress. I realized I liked it, so once I got out, I got caught up, went to university, and-” She shrugged, eating one of the tarts. “The last year wasn’t too different from the second-last.” In the last two years, candidates did no normal schoolwork, only the sort that would help them in the Games. Survival skills were mostly forbidden due to the risk of candidates using them to defect, but there was still plenty to learn. “Half applied for a transfer as soon as they got promoted, though, and more trickled away as they realized they wouldn’t get picked. The first-ranked boy got a transfer of his own volition.”

“If he didn’t want to give the ultimate sacrifice, he shouldn’t be forced to,” Michael said in a dismissive tone. The instructors were supposed to make sure that only the truly committed were promoted, but some always slipped through the cracks, eager to win knowledge and respect without the commitment of sacrifice. “It’s a shame that people like you and people like him are lumped together.”

Teck bit into a sandwich. “Could be worse. Just look at them!” she said, gesturing at the screen, which was showing footage of a village in Five. Tiny barefoot children were running around as older children, the eligible ones, climbed into buses that would take them to Five’s Centre. “Half of them look like they couldn’t fight a strong wind!”

“Yes,” Michael blandly agreed. It was a disgrace that the other Districts weren’t allowed to train their Tributes like One, Two, and Four. It turned the Games from the honourable contest it should have been into a horrific slaughterhouse. While Michael was far from those bleeding-heart anti-Games activists who populated secret prisons across Panem, he would have clapped with delight had Snow announced an end to the Games. 

“Just look at that little one in the blue shirt!” Teck pointed out the child. “She looks like they’re having a famine in the village! How are they supposed to fight off our kids?” 

As always, the two from Two would be well-trained, both in body and mind, and ready for any challenge. That hadn’t always been the case, though. Michael’s parents had both gone through their Reapings before the Games Academy had been established, and they had always reminded him to be grateful for his freedom from fear. Every year, his father had recalled how after his very last Reaping, he had impulsively kissed the boy next to him, so great had been his relief. Michael couldn’t imagine standing in that field and knowing that, were his name to be called, nobody would step forward. But that was how it was for most Districts.

“At least that means ours have a higher chance of coming home,” Teck said, calming down slightly.

“Not by much.” Michael sighed. At the end of the day, the terrain mattered as much as skill, and since they were forbidden from learning survival skills after that incident with the mass defection, it could upset any calculation. “If I may ask, when you were in your last year, did you really think you had a chance of winning?”

Teck nodded. “I was eighteen. I thought I could do anything.”

“Didn’t we all,” Michael agreed with a smile. “It’s starting,” he said as the camera showed a giant field in One, full of children between the ages of twelve and eighteen. The camera carefully focused on only the most well-fed faces, but it couldn’t hide all.

“It’s starting,” Teck echoed him. She sipped her tea, eyes glued to the screen. Michael remembered how he had been bussed down from the Academy every year, standing under the scorching sun in his cadet uniform and waiting for the recitation of the Treaty of Treason to be over.

The male Tribute from One was selected first. As soon as the name was read, a young man shouted “I volunteer!” in a voice amplified by loudspeakers. In Two, the designated volunteers had always been close to one, to make the procedure quicker, and it must have been the same in One and Four. It still took far too long for the boy to make his way to the front, with how someone tried to shake his hand at every step, and before he was there, the same happened with the girls. A young woman strode forward. Both were tall and broad-shouldered, both with a distinctly lower-class appearance. 

“My buddy once told me only slum trash looks like that,” Teck said, delicately eating a small fruit. “Just look at that hair.”

“Who else joins the Games Academy?” Michael pointed out. He himself had dreamed, of course, but his parents had convinced him that he had loftier things to achieve than the position of Tribute. 

“Everyone tries out,” she said defensively. Michael realized he must have offended her, and kicked himself.

“But nobody tries. Unless they’re ultrapatriotic.” It was hard to get into the Games Academy, with only a hundred boys and a hundred girls accepted every year, but many deliberately underperformed. “I had a buddy in the Academy who could have made it. She held back on purpose. Said she wanted to live.”

Teck got up and grabbed a handful of cookies from the table. “Are you calling me suicidal?” she asked teasingly.

Michael wasn’t sure how to reply. “You were twelve, desperate, and grew up with patriotic slogans shouted from every street corner.”

“True.”

They drank tea for a while until the camera switched to Two. As the commentators spewed lies about their home, Teck sat with her hands clenched in her lap, and Michael could feel his heart speeding up. There was the field where he had stood. Where his parents had shivered in fear as teenagers, where he had joked around with his friends, bored. His gaze drifted to the section of the eighteen-year-old boys. They looked so young, all of them.

The name of the girl was read first. “Rhyolite Farizi!”

“I volunteer as Tribute!” Teck whispered in unison with an oddly childish voice. Michael blinked as he saw the girl emerge from her section and run down the path to a storm of applause.

“She doesn’t look eighteen,” he said.

“She does, actually.” 

Michael looked closer and noticed that while she was short and slight, she was obviously well-muscled under those loose shirt and trousers. “She’s strong, at least,” he conceded.

The girl paused to hug a tiny fourteen-year-old who must have been Rhyolite and ran on down to the stage. Then, it was the boys’ turn. As soon as the name was read, the volunteer stepped forward, almost demanding to be made Tribute. Michael realized that the Reaped boy had to be his little brother, they were so obviously alike. The odds of that were tiny, given how big Two was, but such things happened sometimes. Michael wondered if that had been arranged on purpose, to add a bit of drama to the proceedings.

Teck took a gulp of her tea with an unsteady hand. “Clove and Cato, huh? I swear they get younger every year.”

“They’re eighteen.”

“And one of them won’t get to turn nineteen,” she whispered, clutching the cup. “Or both.”

* * *

It was late, but the entirety of CS1 was perched in front of televisions, waiting for the interviews to begin. Teck was eating two pastries at once and Michael was nibbling on a slice of melon. The two of them were, as always, alone in the lounge. In previous years, it had been crammed with his colleagues. He suspected the reason for this was that half of them were convinced he and Teck were in a relationship, and thought it would be romantic to give them space.

Michael wondered what they’d think once they realized their secret cameras revealed no material that could be shown at parties to embarrass them.

“I can’t watch this,” Teck sighed, taking a large bite out of a chocolate pastry.

Michael fished for a way to cheer her up. “You can’t watch that car commercial?” he asked, trying for a joke. “Me neither.” Nobody had had cars in Quarry 48, not even his mother, the Mayor. His lawyer father had often been upset at his inability to measure up to his big-city colleagues.

Thankfully, Teck laughed. “That car is so much nicer than anything anyone had back home. All they had were these awful boxy contraptions that took ten tries to start. The batteries always got knocked out of place.”

Michael finished eating the melon slice. He picked up another one, this one green instead of orange. The ads finally ended, and the interviews began. The girl from One was in a dress that really ought not have been worn by someone underage, and she oozed glamour. Michael wondered if this was an attempt to make her opponents underestimate her and also nab sponsors all at once. Given that she had gotten a nine, Michael doubted the first part of that would work. Her District partner tried a similar line, but at least he was covered up, even if his suit jacket was far too tight-fitting.

Teck pointed out particularly outrageous outfits with a shaking hand as she waited for Clove to go up on the stage. “There she is!” she hissed as the girl approached Flickerman, smiling and waving at the crowd. The dress she wore made her look even younger than her eighteen years.

“So,” Flickerman said, smile glued to his face as always. “A ten - that’s impressive! Care to give us a hint as to what that might mean for us?”

The gleam in Clove’s eyes was sadistic. “Well, I can tell you this,” she began. “If I get my hands on someone - you’ll be in for a real show!”

“What do they teach the kids these days in the Academy?” Teck sighed as the audience whooped and cheered. “Nobody ever tried to teach me to enjoy killing. It was unthinkable.” In the final year, candidates had to go through kill tests, killing first a criminal who was an adult, then one who was in their mid-teens, and then a twelve-year-old one. “In the year above mine, the first-ranked boy was dropped after he slowly cut the target to pieces in his first kill test.” Michael wondered what he was doing now.

In the meanwhile, the interview had shifted to Clove’s reasons for volunteering. “It was all rather simple,” she said. “That poor girl wouldn’t have lasted a day. Now me? That’s what I call a real show.”

“At least she said that much,” Michael said as the audience cheered. Every year, the Careers talked about why trained Tributes were better, and every year, there was no sign of the program being allowed into other Districts. It was enough to make him want to tear out his hair.

“Oh, I don’t doubt you there!” Flickerman replied with a laugh. “Now, you do seem rather confident. Do you have any plans for what you’ll do after getting back? Is there perhaps a special someone out there?”

Michael wondered how Flickerman had the gall to ask the same question to everyone despite knowing full well only one of them would be able to return.

To her credit, Clove seemed aware of the absurdity of the situation. “I take things one step at a time,” she said. “Right now, all I’m focused on is winning this thing. Anything else can wait.”

The interview ended there, and Cato stalked up to the stage. He was dressed in a suit that emphasized his bulk, and the way he sat was almost predatory. His confident boasts were so adolescent, however, that Michael pitied the boy. Cato obviously did not fully grasp what he was getting into, and how could he have?

The girl from Three went up, and Teck began to calm down slowly. Both the girl and the boy from Three made Michael feel slightly sick. Did they know they were already dead? The two from Four were a relief after the slight figures, but then it got worse. Whether twelve or eighteen, the Tributes were malnourished, and even nice clothing couldn’t hide that their cheekbones jutted out and wrists were stick-thin. 

“I remember I used to look like that,” Teck said as the girl from Eleven walked up on stage.

“You couldn’t have been that skinny, you’d never have gotten through tryouts.” The girl looked like she had never gotten enough to eat in her life.

Teck shook her head. “I got through them on sheer grit. Which she doesn’t have.” She gestured sharply at the screen. “I looked it up, she’s a field worker, she never had to worry about someone stabbing her over a pair of shoes.”

Michael thought about the poorer families of quarry workers. Children of single parents or simply of families with too many mouths to feed. The kids had a certain strength to them, they were hardy and tenacious, but unlike Teck, they just weren’t used to hurting others if necessary. “Given how stunted she is, I doubt her family could afford shoes,” he pointed out.

“You think mine could?”

The boy from Eleven was her polar opposite. He looked like he hadn’t known hunger in his life, he was so tall and broad. Michael wondered what sort of jobs paid well but were still highly physical. Or perhaps he had simply trained on his own time. He had a very rural name, though.

The two from Twelve were also much healthier than usual. The girl was short but wiry, and she walked with an unexpected confidence. “I wonder what she did,” Michael wondered. 

“Even Twelve’s got an upper class,” Teck pointed out.

The only thing Michael knew about Twelve was that it was a useless tiny town that existed because Snow hadn’t been able to think of a good way to put it out of its misery. Being transferred there was either a punishment or a reward, depending on if one was interested in getting hammered every day and sleeping with prostitutes for pennies, but it was very rare, due to the small number of Peacekeepers needed to keep an eye on ten thousand people.

“Something is very off about her family,” Michael said. He had spent days wondering about why she had volunteered when every single other sibling of a Tribute didn’t, aside from in rare cases in One, Two, and Four. “I don’t know what it is, but there has to be something.”

“Maybe they’re orphans?”

Michael snorted. “Do you really think your sister would have volunteered for you had you lived in Twelve?”

“Well, no.”

The boy’s interview started out livelier, but his confession of love made Michael’s jaw drop. “I can’t believe nobody tried that before,” he said.

“It’s not going to help him, is it?” Teck shoved a slice of peach pie into her mouth. “I just don’t see how such a strategy could help.”

“And if he’s sincere - what are the odds of that happening?” Michael asked, catching on. “The likelihood of that is bound to be low even in Twelve. Anywhere else, it’s astronomical.” Out of all the names called in Two in Michael’s memory, he hadn’t ever recognized a single one.

Teck nodded, chewing on the pie. Michael suspected that the pile of wrapped chocolates in her lap would go into her stash. “She really does seem like she is into him. But if she just found out now, how is that possible?”

“Maybe they crushed on each other from a distance?” Michael speculated.

The next day, there were red rose petals in the shape of a heart on the couch as they walked into the lounge. “I’m forty, not fourteen,” Teck grumbled, sweeping them onto the floor. “What is this idiocy?”

“Welcome to base life,” Michael muttered, pouring himself a cup of tea and selecting fruit to put onto his plate. “If two people approximately the same age spend even a minute talking to each other, there goes the gossip mill. We’ve spent several days in the same room alone, which means that in their imagination, we must be secretly engaged by now.” He wondered where the rose petals had come from, and then decided it was better he didn’t know. Mentally cursing the anonymous romantics, he picked out some cheese and crackers and sat down on the couch.

“I am so behind on paperwork,” Teck sighed, trying to choose between two pastries. She picked both in the end. “But that’s the Games for you.” She sat down next to him, eyes on the television, which was showing a commercial of some restaurant. “I ate there once,” Teck said. “It was a bribe from someone important. The server looked like I was crazy when I asked them to box up the leftovers. But there were so many!”

Michael wondered if a little Teck had ever dug through garbage cans, looking for fresh leftovers. No wonder she now devoured sweet buns as if they would be banned tomorrow. “You make me wish I served in the Capitol, instead of here.”

Teck ate a pastry. “Food like this, every day.” She paused. “As long as you hand out the right sentences, of course.”

That was par for the course in the judicial realm of Judge Komal Lophand. Legend had it that no defense lawyer had ever succeeded in getting him to hand down a sentence a hair lower than what the prosecution had asked for. And proximity to Aquila Grass, Minister of Justice, certainly didn’t help matters.

Finally, the television stopped showing ads that demonstrated the Capitol’s superiority to everyone in Panem. The excited speculation onscreen revolted Michael, however, and he sat with clenched teeth, waiting for it to start. All he wanted was for this to be over and either Cato or Clove triumphant. Since Two’s boy had won the previous year, though, he had to admit that Cato stood little chance.

“It’s starting,” Teck hissed. Michael wondered how she was capable of eating so much while stressed. His own appetite was almost gone, and he had to force himself to nibble on the little crackers and exotic fruits.

It was indeed starting. Michael watched with bated breath as the arena appeared, and had to hold back a curse as a forest appeared. He tried to think of where in Panem such terrain could be found. A forest, a lake, a field of grasses - this favoured the outer Districts, assuming the Tributes knew survival skills, of course. Michael had avoided reading about them, as that would have made watching them die impossible.

“Maybe it’ll get cold at night,” Teck said hopefully.

Michael shook his head. “This isn’t the Seventy-Second.” There, a boy who had gotten only a three in the training had managed to survive the freezing cold simply because everyone else had charged the Cornucopia and gotten killed, and the Careers had idiotically tried to climb a mountain in a snowstorm, with predictable consequences. “It’ll have to be survivable.”

“Pity,” Teck said, teeth visibly clenched. The countdown began, and the two of them watched in silence as the Tributes got ready and ran. The screen split to show the fights. Two, the girl from Five and the boy from Ten, simply ran into the forest. Given that the boy from Ten had a limp - the most severe disability Michael had ever seen a Tribute with - that made sense. He wondered what the girl from Five had been thinking, with how fast she was. She could have at least grabbed something. “Alright, this makes no sense. Five’s from the city, how does she know how to survive in the middle of a forest?”

“We’ll see,” Michael said, focusing on Clove, who had just thrown a knife into the back of the boy from Nine. She threw another at the girl from Twelve, but only hit her backpack.

“Aw, come on, now she has a knife on top of everything!” Teck exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. Meanwhile, the boy from Eleven killed the boy from Four before running off with a large backpack and Cato killed the girl from Three. More Tributes were disappearing into the woods now, the girl from Eight and the girl from Eleven both disappearing from view for now.

The boy from Eight killed the girl from Six and took off, but took an arrow in the back from the girl from One. All was still. Michael realized he had missed most of the deaths. “Ours don’t have a scratch on them,” he said, satisfied. 

“Wait, why’s Twelve in our alliance?” Teck asked, leaning in closer. She looked at Michael with wide eyes. “This is a trap!”

“Probably,” Michael agreed unhappily. He wished Cato and Clove would see through it, but they were eighteen. There was little chance of them noticing anything was wrong until it was too late.

* * *

Over the next few days, things escalated. Neither of them had any idea as to why the Gamemakers would make it possible to reactivate the mines, and speculated on whose head would roll. Michael had started out thinking it would be blamed on the Head Engineer, but had been convinced by Teck that specific mines, pods, and other traps were all picked by the Gamemakers, which meant it would be pinned on the Head Gamemaker.

Teck’s heart had nearly stopped when the girl from Twelve had dropped that tracker jacker nest on their Tributes, but at least Cato and Clove were fine. Her heart nearly stopped again when the girl from Twelve teamed up with the girl from Eleven to blow up the supplies.

“That’s why they need to teach survival skills,” Teck grumbled. “They succeed, and then what? Ours are screwed.”

“They’d never risk defection.” Survival skills had once been taught, culminating in a mass defection the morning of the Reaping. A seventeen-year-old had ended up volunteering for the boys that year, a year early. He had made it to the end, but when the pack had collapsed, ended up the third-last to die that year. “That’s what matters to them, not whether our kids come home.”

Teck grimaced, but nodded. “Poor kids.”

The supplies ended up being destroyed, and Michael and Teck could only sigh. Hopefully the sponsors would get them through. A part of Michael was happy when the boy from One killed the girl from Eleven, and even happier when Twelve shot One. One competitor gone.

“Why are they showing this?” Teck hissed as Twelve began to sing to Eleven. “That’s borderline sedition.”

Michael had no idea. This is what the five-minute delay was for, and they weren’t using it. “Maybe the Head Gamemaker thinks it’s cute.”

Teck replied with a lengthy monologue about the Head Gamemaker and every single enemy of his who was sure to use this to their advantage.

* * *

That evening, he got an unexpected phone call. “Yes?” he asked, picking up the receiver.

“Dr. Michael Wreath?” an unfamiliar female voice asked.

“Yes.”

“I am calling about Sergeant Aris Murenzi.” Michael’s heart clenched at hearing his onetime friend’s name. “He was killed in the rioting.”

Michael had heard rumours about the riots in Eleven. So far, though, there had been no news of dead Peacekeepers. “Why are you calling me?” he asked, suspicious.

“Murenzi often bragged about you, and it was easy enough to get the number.”

“Thank you,” Michael said, choking up. “And good luck on the front.”

“We’ll need it.” The line went dead.

Michael put his head in his hands, mentally cursing the girl from Twelve for singing that stupid song and giving that stupid farewell salute. Now his old buddy was dead. He wished he could have stayed in touch with his friends. It was ironic that he hadn’t even thought about Murenzi for years, and now the memories were flooding back. They had had bunks next to each other. They had studied together, played cards, laughed as the more daring cadets had been punished for sneaking into town. 

Michael had been smart, but Murenzi had just been quiet. He had been incapable of hurting a fly, and Michael wondered how he had fared putting down a riot. Murenzi had been so happy when Michael had been accepted into university. He had hugged him farewell, and they had never met again. Michael had gone to university and then to Cuba, and Murenzi had been posted to somewhere in Eleven. 

It was so unfair. Quiet Murenzi, the dutiful rule-follower who had never hesitated when ordered to jump off a roof with a blindfold over his eyes. He had always known there would be a net under him. Why did he have to die because of a horde who had tolerated the Games for seventy-three years but had suddenly regained their consciences because of a stupid song?

* * *

The Games got worse from there. As Teck cursed the Games Academy instructors with increasingly creative curses, Clove tortured the girl from Twelve without noticing the boy from Eleven run up to her. Teck looked down as he smashed her head against the Cornucopia. The camera cut to the girl from Five stopping to look inside the backpack, which turned out to contain food and a blanket, and then cut back to Cato pursuing the boy from Eleven, who had both backpacks.

“What was that fucking bullshit?” Teck demanded of nobody in particular, throwing her hands in the air. “Have the instructors lost their fucking heads? I’ll throttle them myself, the useless sacks of shit! I’ll make them squeal like a herd of lobotomized pigs!”

The camera then cut back to the love story. Michael had long since stopped bothering to be confused, and tried to take it in stride. The two from Twelve clearly liked each other very much, given how much time they spent kissing and hugging and telling each other funny stories. Michael found himself hoping they’d actually be able to survive.

Michael and Teck, who had calmed down by then, sat with bated breath as Cato snuck up on the boy from Eleven, who was walking slowly under the rain. The thunder covered up the sound of Cato’s movement as he lunged forward and slashed the boy’s throat with his sword.

“Well, then,” Michael said as the body toppled to the ground. The cannon was covered up by thunder, presumably to confuse the other three. The lovebirds were hiding in a cave, and Five was huddling under a ledge, trying to make her small food supplies last. She hadn’t gotten a single parachute the entire Games. “One less.”

“I hope this rain stops soon,” Teck sighed. “It’s depressing.”

* * *

Michael recognized the berries the boy from Twelve was picking, and cheered on him to eat one. Teck was much louder in her wish.

“Come on!” she hissed. “Just eat the damn berry.” She had needed Templesmith’s explanation to understand what they were, but now she was just as eager as Michael to have the field thin. 

Michael ate a blueberry and watched Five sneak up. She was completely unarmed. She waited for Twelve to walk away and quietly made her way to the piece of plastic the berries were lying on. 

“Sure, whatever,” Teck said. “Anyone.”

Either not recognizing the berries or too starved to think coherently, the girl grabbed a handful of berries and stuffed them in her mouth. She looked around and began to back away slowly, but less than a minute later, she fell to the ground, still within arm’s reach of the berries.

The next day, Michael was ready for it to end. Even the appearance of mutts with the physical characteristics of the dead Tributes wasn’t enough to faze him, as he was simply too wrung out. It was painful to know Cato wasn’t going to make it, but Teck’s eating habits concerned him more.

“There’s plenty of food,” he said in a deliberately light tone. “You don’t have to stash away all the candy.”

Teck shook her head. “No fancy pastries, though. You have to eat while you can.” Her pockets were stuffed with tea bags, foil packets of instant coffee, and chocolate bars, as was her bag. “Also, this is not ending today.”

On the screen, the two from Twelve were shivering as Cato slowly died. Michael had no desire to continue watching. “You’re right,” he said, standing up. “Good night.”

The next morning, he was just in time to see the rule change revoked. Michael was not surprised to see the two attempt suicide, and he was even less surprised to see the revocation cancelled. “It’s over,” he sighed. He thought of Cato and Clove, who would be returning to their families in plain wooden boxes.

“I might have made it there,” Teck said, chewing a sandwich. Her eyes were sad. “Or maybe not. Maybe, had I been trained the way Clove was, I’d have tried to draw out the kill, too.” She picked up the remote and turned off the television. “You?”

Michael shook his head. “When I tried out, I failed the fights miserably. Never had the grit and truculence, even back then.” He tried to imagine himself in the place of Cato, and failed. He couldn’t imagine himself swinging a sword like a maniac and snapping the neck of a child with his bare hands.

“That was the one thing I did well on.” Teck polished off the sandwich. “They beat me down, but I kept on hopping up and keeping on going. That made up for the fact that I weighed less than thirty kilos.” She stood up, stretching. “I need to go sentence some drunks now,” she said with a sigh.

“Same,” Michael replied, “though I wish they were drunks.”

* * *

“How do you plead?” Michael asked the defendant.

“Guilty,” the three-year-old replied, as instructed. His family had tried to sail away from Four in a small boat. The Coast Guard had opened fire, and Coral Jones was the only survivor.

Michael felt an intense sense of wrongness. This wasn’t how trials were supposed to run. He had studied law, after all, and this was counter to everything his professors had said. Coral didn’t even have a lawyer; the only people in the room besides him and Michael were two Peacekeepers and the prosecutor. Defendants were supposed to have lawyers, especially if they were children. 

Had it been up to Michael, the boy would have simply been sent to a Community Home, but Snow had commanded Lux, the C-in-C, who had commanded Verdant, the Head of the Coast Guard, who had commanded Michael and the rest of the military judges. Attempted defectors were brought to trial no matter how young they were. Michael had heard of a man who had been tossed into a special prison with his infant child in his arms, as, according to the official line from above, nobody was immune to prosecution. 

Michael’s disillusionment with the Peacekeepers grew with every passing year. While the Coast Guard did nothing wrong when it came to attacking armed convoys heading back and forth between the Wilds, and thus Thirteen, and other countries, despite what the occasional bit of Rebel propaganda scattered around the base said, their behaviour when it came to hunting down defectors was often reprehensible. There, Michael was in full agreement with the Rebels he knew had infiltrated the base. He wished that those officers who ordered their soldiers to machine-gun canoes were punished, instead of successfully concealing their acts from the higher-ups, and that these horrible trials of small children ceased.

“Coral Jones, you are found guilty of illegally crossing the border. You are sentenced to a closed institution until the administration decides otherwise; this sentence will be served in Two.” Theoretically, Michael could have had the boy shot, but sending him to Two was a much better gesture. That way, the boy would grow up to be a useful and happy member of society.

The boy looked confused. Michael clenched his teeth, willing his face to stay smooth. His justifications seemed absurd to him. Was Jones old enough to know what it meant to plead guilty? Did he even understand what was going on? That he was being sent to a completely unfamiliar place for doing something he did not understand was a crime?

* * *

“Interesting,” Teck said. “Though if I were Snow, I’d have killed Everdeen in a way that didn’t make her a martyr.”

Michael picked up the remote and turned off the television. “Does it matter now?” he asked. “Panem’s a powder keg. It’s just luck that the spark that lit the fuse was so powerful, and once it finishes burning, that’s it.” He reached for his cup and drank some tea. On the wall beside the television, a red heart was sloppily painted, with ‘Teck+Wreath’ written inside it. Nobody ventured inside this lounge anymore except for the two of them.

At this point, Michael was ready to personally throttle whoever had been behind this adolescent nonsense.

“You think there would have been all this unrest without her?”

“Of course.” He set down his cup, trying not to look at the heart. At least the anonymous graffitist wasn’t painting mockingjays all over the base and writing cryptic messages about merchant shipping anymore, that had come to a stop after Finance had shelled out for cameras that actually worked. “They just don’t tell us anything until it escalates to the point where half the world knows. It could have been a mass execution, or a new purge because someone spat wrong, or anything else like that. Everdeen’s just the catalyst.”

Teck picked up the remote and turned the television back on, though she kept it muted. “Not just any catalyst. It was on television. Something else would have taken a long time to become commonly known - raised quotas would have just resulted in immediate small-scale riots that would have been suffocated before any sort of inter-District communication could be put together. But any Rebel group could latch onto that stunt with the berries and show it off to their supporters as a sign that we can make the Capitol obey us, instead of the other way around.” 

“How patriotic of you,” Michael said, noticing her phrasing. He looked around, but there was, of course, nobody except them in the room, and the indoor cameras hadn’t worked for the past decade. 

“Patriotic?” Michael quoted her own words back at her. For a second, Teck looked terrified, before sighing and leaning back against the soft couch. “This is not going to be a good time to be disloyal,” she said. “Can’t Snow see it’s too late? Yes, most of the nation is probably celebrating right now because their kids aren’t in danger for a year, and yes, the designated volunteers are sitting in their dorms right now feeling an emotion they can’t identify as relief, but the Rebels have latched onto Everdeen, and this will just fire them up.”

“I didn’t even think about the designated volunteers,” Michael said. “I hope they aren’t too angry at next year’s cohort.”

“You think next year’s cohort will get to volunteer?”

A chill ran down Michael’s spine. “Do you know something I don’t?” he asked in a whisper.

Teck shook her head. “If you compare the time scales to the Dark Days, it’s even worse right now. It’s spiralling out of control, and Snow is using the whip instead of the honey-cake even though it’s just making everything worse.” She sighed. 

“I’m scared,” Michael admitted. Her words had more truth to them than he wanted to admit. “What’s going to happen to us?”

Teck looked at him and smiled weakly. “We’ll do our duty.”

* * *

Michael tried not to look at the footage of the burning hospital. He had a judgement to write, after all. But no matter how hard he tried to focus on the case of the Rebel spy, his eyes darted up of their own volition to the small television in the corner.

That could not be right. Michael knew that much. Of course, insurgents often operated from schools and hospitals, making them legitimate targets, but to show it on television? Michael suspected this would not end well. It would only make everyone angrier. Glancing at his computer screen, he sighed and closed the document.

* * *

On the television, Finnick Odair was describing how he had been trafficked after his Games.

“What the fuck?” Teck whispered. The two of them were ostensibly working together in his office, but in reality, they were watching the news. “But why?”

“I don’t know.” Michael felt like he had been hit over the head. “I can’t believe it.” The words hit him like rocks, one after the other until he couldn’t tell truth from lies anymore. “How could they have deceived us like that?”

“Power.” Teck clutched at her folder. “We were taught to revere our Victors and want to emulate them - but, unbeknownst to us, this is how they were treated. Snow wanted to show them who really had the power.”

As Odair began to describe various alleged state secrets and sordid gossip, the two judges listened closely. Teck had worked in the Capitol, so she knew of these people much better than Michael, who just clutched the remote control and hoped nobody from the Coast Guard would be mentioned. “That’s not true,” she said, shaking her head. “I remember that gossip about Talvian, it was cooked up by the Chief of Police to discredit her. Though it’s true she took bribes, of course.”

“Given who those people are, it makes sense they tried to spread malicious rumours to deal with rivals,” Michael pointed out. He fell silent as Odair began to explain the dirty underbelly of the Games industry. 

“I never met the Head Engineer outside of official functions,” the young man said, fidgeting with a bit of thin rope. “She was not the sort to pay for the pleasure of anyone’s company - the picture-perfect Capitol ideal of a professional who came back home in the evening to a doting spouse and happy children. Her subordinates, however, were not as content with what they had.”

Teck listened to the litany of disgusting crimes with horror. “If a tenth of this is true - I can’t believe that I was raised to view this horrorshow as an honour.”

“Not that,” Michael said. 

“Does it matter? You can’t have one without the other. We were lied to and betrayed.”

Odair moved on to describing Snow’s rise to power. Teck alternatively winced and nodded. “He’s playing into the myth Snow himself created!” she complained. “Snow’s not all-powerful like that. The way he speaks, one couldn’t have whispered of rebellion without dying the next day.” She sipped her tea. “And he only used poison in exceptional cases. He always preferred straightforward show trials, or forced retirements. I saw it myself.”

Inaccuracy of bedroom gossip aside, Michael was stunned and horrified by the revelations. Of course, he had known that the Capitol was built on nepotism and corruption and that even new cobblestones couldn’t be laid without half the money being stolen, but this was something different. The sheer depravity of some of those people shocked him, and he only realized at that moment how happy he was that the Coast Guard had gone unmentioned, as well as the High Command. At least the armed forces were clean in that regard. 

“I can’t believe the people we were raised to consider heroes were trafficked,” Michael said, folding his hands together. “It’s like an extra slap in the face. We were raised to consider the Games the highest honour, and this is what happened to the Victors!”

Teck glared at the screen. “I hope Snow drops dead.” Michael turned to her, stunned. “What? This is a step too far. Everyone knows now. The best we can hope for is to surrender now, and hope they don’t put us all against the wall on the spot.”

* * *

A gunshot rang out somewhere. Michael paid it no mind. The Rebellion was coming, after all, and there was nothing else remaining for the Peacekeepers on the island base of Cuba to do. He himself had also thought of ending it all, now that the Capitol itself was being assaulted. Nevertheless, he did not reach for the poison or the gun. He wasn’t sure why. Everyone had heard the rumours about what the Rebels did to collaborators, and he doubted that senior Peacekeeper officers would be better off. Even if he was kept alive for a drumhead court-martial or show trial, that was still not the sort of death he wanted.

At the end of the day, though, there was no sort of death Michael wanted, not at his age. So he sat in his office, making himself a cup of tea from a bag that had already been used several times, and thought. He wished he had never joined the Peacekeepers, but he knew that no better option had presented itself then. His parents had been the ones to send him to the Academy, and the Academy had sent him to university. And what other path existed for a young and ambitious lawyer with a deep passion for maritime law, if not the Coast Guard?

In the Capitol, he was respected. The Peacekeeper generals all knew of Michael Wreath, the Coast Guard judge. They praised him for his deep knowledge of the law. Maybe, had he been a hair less competent in law school, he wouldn’t have had to sentence children. Wouldn’t have had to put himself in a position where he represented everything loathsome about the government.

The tea barely tasted like tea. Outside his window, he could see Peacekeepers hanging up white flags. All of the real hardliners had long since left, to fight in the only meaningful battle there was. Only the dregs remained, the would-be deserters too cowardly to defect and the simply apathetic. And Michael. He wasn’t sure what category he belonged to.

There was a knock on the door. “They’re coming.” That was Teck. She looked oddly calm.

Michael looked at the horizon. Nothing, yet. “That makes sense,” he said. “I’m sure that they can spare a few ships to capture us.” While the majority of Thirteen’s fleet was needed to trade with other countries, they had enough to also capture the island bases of the Coast Guard.

“You’re the most senior officer we’ve got.”

That also made sense. “Very well,” he said, turning around. “Shall we go wait for our vanquishers?”

Michael and Teck made their way outside. Peacekeepers, both in and out of uniform, dashed around, throwing guns into piles on the ground and making towers out of crates of ammunition. Some ambled around aimlessly. Still others sat on the ground staring into space. Large white flags had been raised just by the coastline. “What do you think they’ll do with us?” he asked Teck. None of them had gotten any proper reports for weeks now. His home county had surrendered without a fight, but mayors were being arrested en masse. Michael had no idea what was happening to his parents.

“ _Vae victis_ ,” Teck declaimed quietly.

“What does that mean?”

Teck linked her hands behind her back. “Woe to the vanquished.”

That was true. Michael was now on the losing side, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. The thought stung, but he knew that the Capitol must have been faring much worse. “Did you hear about how those Capitol Rebels put up posters on streetlamps? ‘Reserved for Snow’.”

Teck nodded, staring out at the ocean. “Snow can go hang, literally, for all I care. It’s the others I’m worried about. How will they treat the civilians after the way they were treated for so long?”

Once, Michael would have considered such talk borderline treason. He knew better now. “And what of us? They might put us against the wall.” The whisper of the waves hitting the shore was soothing. “Like you said. Woe to the vanquished.” He didn’t want to die, and the thought filled him with gnawing anxiety, but there was simply nowhere to run.

As Michael stood watching the waves, feeling the sweat bead on his face, a small boat appeared on the horizon. Michael raised his arms and waved, and the boat got closer and closer.

In the boat were a group of officers. Michael saluted them as they disembarked, and, to his surprise, they returned it. The most senior of the group shook his hand. “Tell your soldiers they are urgently needed,” he said. “We need to clear the ocean pods as fast as possible.”

That was not what he had expected. “How will you treat us?” he asked as they began to make their way up the beach. Several others ran ahead, alerting everyone to the news.

“We need access to all of your records, and you will be placed under our command. Otherwise, carry on as usual. Keep your uniforms and decorations.”

* * *

While the Coast Guard Peacekeepers stationed on island bases were living normally, the rest of the country wasn’t. Reconstruction was going slowly but steadily, thanks to help from abroad, and there was a long road ahead for all of them. Famine had been avoided and more of the country was on track to be electrified than ever before, but it was only in these basic things that Michael was happy with how things were going.

Michael read the news reports with a gnawing anxiety. Coin’s treatment of the Peacekeepers wasn’t unjust per se, and neither was Snow’s trial or that of the Gamemakers, but something about it all still felt wrong to him. On top of that, rumours of who had really dropped those bombs on the Capitol’s children had reached his ears, and Michael believed them. 

He also heard a variety of rumours about what would happen to the Capitol, each one more unpleasant than the last. In light of that, the Rebellion’s promises to try everyone they considered guilty of crimes looked like either a blatant lie or a hypocritical fig leaf. This would be victors’ justice, pure and simple. While Michael couldn’t imagine any other way it could work, he wished that they weren’t going to hide their misdeeds behind a veneer of law, sullying it. Better a lynching than a show trial.

As weeks dragged on and Snow’s trial sped towards its conclusion, Michael became more and more cynical about his future prospects. When a civilian official approached him the day of Snow’s execution, Michael knew what he expected to hear.

“The Mockingjay killed Coin,” she said, “and Snow was beaten to death by a mob.”

“Now what?” Michael asked, sinking into a chair. This would not end well.

* * *

_"...Let us not fall prey to our basest desires! Let us stay the hand of vengeance, and instead, stretch out the hand of justice!"_

“Stay the hand of vengeance?” Michael mused. “That has a nice ring to it.”

Teck stared at the television as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s unbelievable,” she said. “What taught Paylor to be this way? How did she even come up with these ideas?”

The speech continued, and Michael found himself nodding along to it. Paylor wasn’t the militant factory activist-turned-Rebel leader he had imagined her to be. She had been a factory activist, yes, and a labour agitator as well, but she was also a firm believer in law and order with the deepest respect for both letter and spirit of the law. When she finished her speech with the announcement that she would run for President, Michael had to hold himself back from applauding.

“It’ll be interesting to see who else runs,” Teck said. 

“I already know who I’m voting for,” Michael said confidently. Teck gave him an odd look.

“Me, I’m interested to see her brand of justice,” she said. “Do you think there will be room in it for the likes of us?”

Michael nodded confidently. “We’re judges, and not the political kind. There will always be room for the likes of us.” Teck didn’t look so sure.

* * *

Michael stared at the computer screen, wishing that the multicoloured dots would simply disappear on their own. After weeks of pod-clearing, there were still large swathes of the ocean that were dangerous to enter without a holo, and various South American countries were constantly on the phone to complain about pods that had reached their territorial waters. Even Japan had complained a few times, and that was in Asia.

Since Michael was in charge of pod clearance in the Atlantic north of the Caribbean, he was at least spared foreign fury, but that was scant consolation when the interim Coast Guard commander got an earful from the Ministry of Defense of Venezuela or Suriname or some other country Michael had never known existed and proceeded to express her disapproval of the pace of work to her immediate subordinates, one of whom was Michael.

“It doesn’t look too bad, sir,” someone said from behind him. “Look at all the progress we’ve made.”

Not bothering to turn around, Michael used the playback function to estimate how badly the southernmost pods would disperse in seven days if nothing was done with them. Most likely, that would result in them going past his sector boundaries. “We’ll have to focus on the outliers,” he said. “Even a single one can sink a foreign ship.” It galled him to chase after a bare handful of pods when there were areas that were still completely impassable by a craft larger than an especially light kayak, but the new government was obsessed with the idea of creating good relations with other countries.

“I can’t believe they just mined the entire coast like that,” someone whispered. Michael pricked up his ears at the word choice. Sure enough, the next thing out of the person’s mouth was, “And they ended up in neutral territory, too! That’s got to break multiple laws. How many neutral craft were destroyed by them?”

Michael pretended to not have heard. A mind-boggling amount of former law students and banned book aficionados were of the opinion that Michael and his ilk should have somehow lived by laws they had never suspected existed. When Michael had read a copy of the Constitution, he had nearly fainted with shock.

* * *

When the ship returned to shore, there was a Rebellion colonel standing on the shore. “Dr. Michael Wreath?” she asked, saluting.

“That is me,” Michael said warily, returning the salute. When Rebellion soldiers asked for people, those people tended to end up behind bars within hours. In the Capitol, even the leaders of neighbourhood associations had been arrested en masse.

“You are ordered to the Capitol,” the colonel said.

Michael began to worry that they were going to treat him like one of those political judges. “Is it on IDC orders?” The Inter-District Committee had rapidly become the terror of anyone who had ever wielded the slightest amount of power, arresting and firing at will.

“Yes,” the colonel said. “You are to be a lawyer at the trial of the key criminals.”


	2. Lawyer I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a lawyer. At best, I am an armchair historian. The opinions expressed by the characters are all real perspectives I have read, but some of them are wrong, either because the characters are deliberately distorting the truth or simply because I misunderstood something. Do not try to quote me on any of this. If you’re curious about something, ask in the comments and I will provide you with actual academic sources on the topic.

A lawyer? Michael hid his relief and tried to think. “When do I need to be there?” he asked, wondering whom he was going to be defending. The list of key criminals still hadn’t been published, though he had his suspicions.

“Right now.”

WIthin minutes, Michael was on a hovercraft to the Capitol, being briefed by an exhausted IDC functionary. He only had a small suitcase and a duffel bag with him. “Caius Best asked for you by name,” the functionary said in an accent Michael couldn’t place, “and it is very likely that you will have to help out with Verdant’s defense as well.” Imagining his onetime commanders in the defendant’s dock galled Michael, but that was how things were now. While he was more than willing to defend the honour of the Coast Guard in court, he wasn’t looking forward to becoming a political lawyer. 

“I’ll need access to the Coast Guard archives,” Michael said carefully. Best had been retired for over a decade, so it would take some digging. Michael had not expected a political trial to make sense, but indicting someone who had been retired for years was a new low. The only halfway plausible reason he could think of was that Best had been the founder of the Coast Guard as an independent branch, and the IDC was desperate to indict someone who had actually started something, instead of merely joining it at some point.

Michael realized he was daydreaming and focused on the functionary.

“Of course!” the functionary replied. “You will be furnished with everything necessary. Documents, assistants, computers, paper - nothing will hamper the defense in its work.” He sighed, taking a large gulp of coffee. “I won’t lie, though, it’s chaos at best right now. The prosecution is drowning in documents, and the IDC is struggling to find defense lawyers. Not to mention that the list hasn’t even been published yet, though it’s been finalized for weeks now, from what I’ve heard.”

Michael had never participated in a truly major trial before, but this was like nothing he had ever heard of. “Interesting. Will it be possible for me to say a few words to my client before the trial starts?”

“Of course! You can meet the day you arrive if you want, and it will be a month at least before the trial starts.” That was a pleasant surprise. Michael had expected that he’d only meet his client when the trial started. “You’ll be able to talk for as long as you want, there will be assistants to help you search for witnesses - everything you need. And during the trial itself, you’ll be able to cross-examine witnesses yourself.” Michael was beginning to suspect that the functionary was terrified that he would run off. “And you’ll get food and supplies just like Rebellion officers of your ranks. The lodgings, I heard, are also more than adequate.”

Projecting a relaxed air, Michael sat back in the seat. “Forgive me, but what is your name?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“Miler Rine,” the functionary said in a calmer voice, taking his hand. “I’m from Six originally. Born and raised in Centre, been a civil servant all my life, defected in 70, working in the archives since then.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Miler Rine. I look forward to representing my client to the best of my ability.” 

When they got off the hovercraft, Rine took him through customs, Michael following the man into a crowd of people who had clearly come from abroad to visit long-lost loved ones. They spoke in unfamiliar languages and wore strange clothing, but their eyes expressed the same feelings. Hope. Eagerness. Anticipation. Some of them dragged multiple suitcases behind them - clearly intent on joining their families in Panem - while others had almost nothing, either because they would stay as guests or because their families would return with them.

In the queue to hand in their declaration forms - Rine had had to walk Michael through the confusing process - everyone practically shook with anticipation. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Rine asked in a thick voice. “After three-quarters of a century, families are reunited.”

Michael had seen videos of the arrival of the first hovercraft out of Panem. It had been a touching scene, bringing tears to his eyes. Being in the crowd, though, he felt the emotions almost like his own. He moved his suitcase to the other hand, handed in the form, and waited for the door to open. It would only do so at a certain time, and they were early.

The anticipation built. Several people were on their phones, most likely contacting their relatives. Some were crying. The door slid open, and Michael saw a crowd up ahead, standing behind a white line painted on the ground. “We should step aside,” he said to Rine as the scene exploded into chaos.

People ran for each other, hugging and crying and speaking all at once. The waiting ones held up signs with names written on them or waved little flags or shouted things Michael couldn’t understand or all three. As Rine led Michael through the rush and out of the just-built airport, they nearly collided with a stocky middle-aged woman carrying two large duffel bags on her shoulders and dragging a huge wheeled suitcase behind her. “Good afternoon, Dr. Blueroot!” Rine said. “What’s in there?”

Dr. Blueroot turned to look at them. Her eyes nearly fell out of their sockets when she saw Michael. Deliberately, he stood a little straighter. He had every right to wear his uniform, her government had given him the permission. “Are you Verdant’s lawyer?” she asked in a faint voice.

“No, Admiral Best’s. Has it already gotten out?” Still overwhelmed from the crowd they were leaving behind, it took him a few seconds to collect himself.

“No, I just noticed your uniform, and Miler told us he was going to pick up a lawyer.” She furrowed her eyebrows, staring at the stripes on his sleeves.

At that moment, another person arrived, likewise weighed down with huge bags and likewise staring at Michael. “You remind me of someone,” they said. “Is your name Otto, by any chance?” That was said in a joking tone.

Michael was growing more confused by the second. “I’m Michael Wreath.”

“ _Wreath_?” That was said in unison.

“Yes.” Who were they confusing him with?

“That is amazing,” Dr. Blueroot said. “What a remarkable coincidence. Are you versed in international law?” A third person arrived, a tall and slender man with pale skin and long, dark hair in a crown of braids.

“I studied maritime law.” They hadn’t been allowed to study foreign cases, though, or pre-Cataclysm ones. 

The man looked confused. “Was he reincarnated or something?” The five of them walked to a waiting car and piled in, suitcases and duffel bags barely fitting inside. “Careful, these books are rare!” he told the driver.

“Did you study pre-Cataclysm cases?” the person asked, sitting down beside him in the middle row. To the other side of the person was Rine, Dr. Blueroot sat in the front with the driver, and the man was in the back with the duffel bags. Michael’s own suitcase was on his lap, and his bag was on the floor in front of him.

“Of course not.” Michael was beginning to feel slightly frustrated. “Could you please introduce yourselves first, so that I may know who I’m talking to?”

“You know me already,” Dr. Blueroot said, “and I’m a legal historian. The three of us all are. The person next to you is Dr. Nurbeko, and the one in the back is Dr. Lee. We specialize in pre-Cataclysm legal history, with a focus on international law. Dr. Nurbeko and I were born and raised in Thirteen, while Dr. Lee started out as a history professor and defected from the Capitol several years ago after reading a book-”

“Please, don’t, you’ll make me sound out of my mind,” Dr. Lee protested. “I was sort of with the Rebellion, but I never did much because I couldn’t imagine any other way of doing things. But after reading Arnold Brackman’s excellent book, I realized that it was worth a shot.”

“You still sound out of your mind,” Dr. Nurbeko said. “You’re probably the only defector ever who was inspired by a book about the Tokyo Trial of all things.” Turning to Michael, who was beginning to feel rather frustrated, they added, “I apologize for this foolishness. We’ve spent too much time in libraries and archives, and nobody else understands our references.” They reached into a jacket pocket and took out a book, flipping through it. “This is why we were so shocked. This person’s name partially means ‘Wreath’ in a European language, and he was called on to perform a task identical to yours, so the resemblance is uncanny.”

Michael took the book from them. It was opened to a small, glossy section of photographs, all black and white. One of the pages he could see showed a diagram of a courtroom, and the other featured a man who looked nothing like Michael. “Just because we have the same amount of stripes on our sleeves doesn’t mean we’re the same,” he pointed out. The only thing they shared was a military bearing and the fact that they wore uniforms at all, though the man in the photo wore a dark one. “He even looks nothing like me. Light skin, straight hair - he’s practically my opposite!” Michael turned the page to a large photo of a courtroom in session. He was able to find the lawyer from the previous photo easily, as he was the only one in uniform. Would he also stick out like a sore thumb? Michael was proud to represent the Coast Guard, but this would make life more difficult. He turned the page again, and could only blink at confusion at the photos of emaciated corpses. “And how am I supposed to interpret this?” he asked the historians.

“Long story,” Dr. Lee said as he took the book from him. “It’s from a trial before the Cataclysm.” He took out his phone. “Has anyone shown you the list of the defendants yet?”

Rine shook his head. “ _I_ haven’t seen it yet.”

Dr. Lee smiled at Michael. “Here you go,” he said, passing his phone to him. “A small advantage for the defense.”

Michael read the list, trying to figure out who was who. The twenty-four names came with no descriptors, but watching television with Teck had prepared him for this moment. 

The first name, Michael had seen coming. Dovek had been the Minister of Internal Affairs, but he had been involved with practically everything and had been rumoured to be Snow’s right hand. Oldsmith had been one of Snow’s secretaries - the other had committed suicide - and had also fought for that position. Bright had been Head Peacekeeper in Eight, earning infamy there, but her previous experience in Seven had led to her indictment by an inter-district tribunal instead of a trial in Eight. Lux had been the Commander-in-Chief of the Peacekeepers. Cotillion had been in charge of the Institute for Genetic Research; Michael had often seen her creations in the Games.

After those big names came that of Blatt, former Minister of Armaments. As far as Michael knew, she hadn’t had that much power. Michael’s heart sped up as he read the names of Verdant and Best. There it was, in black and white. His task. He forced himself to continue reading. After Verdant was Krechet, whose name Michael had heard only once or twice, and only in whispers. He had been in what many had called the Death Squad, which had carried out covert murders. Talvian, Michael recognized instantly - as head of the NCIA, she would have been the one giving orders to Krechet. She, too, was considered a candidate for the position of Snow’s right hand.

Next came Chaterhan, CEO of the Steelworks, a conglomerate which had owned entire Districts. Blues had been the master builder of the Hunger Games Arenas. Lark had been a particularly noxious propagandist and was most likely only on trial due to the suicides of Flickerman and Templesmith, as well as that of Kren, Minister of Information. Thread had been Head Peacekeeper in Eleven and Twelve, and the last stray cat knew about his acts in the latter. Ledge had been Minister of Finances; Michael knew nothing else about him or why he had been indicted. Only vaguely was he able to recall that Brack had been deputy Minister of Education and thus responsible for the propaganda Michael had been fed in his early years.

The latter half was mostly smaller fry, called up to answer for the crimes of their bosses. Dijksterhuis had been Minister of Economics, Pollman - deputy Minister of District Affairs. Both had been barely known. Michael only knew of Toplak, the deputy head of the Training Centre, and Kirji, the head of Victors’ Affairs, through gossip and propos. Lee, the Minister of Health, Michael at least knew as the reason why only the poor had died in his hometown during a smallpox epidemic when Michael had been eleven. 

Michael made a mental note to thank Teck for sharing her deep knowledge of the system with him. Coll, former Minister of Resources, and Grass, former Minister of Justice, were certainly no household names, though the latter he knew very well thanks to his job. The last name, though, confused him. Who in the world was Irma Slice? 

On top of that, Michael was unsure of why three historians had this information. “Why did you get this information early?” he asked. “Did you participate in the selection?”

“No,” Dr. Blueroot said, “but we were asked to provide input on what sort of people have been tried in such cases before, and we’ve worked together with IDC leaders before.” She was flipping through a book.

That was still rather strange, in Michael’s opinion. He wondered why they were being so open with a defense lawyer - or were they the sort of experts that helped both sides with equal enthusiasm? “Who’s Slice?” he asked.

“Hans Fritzsche,” Dr. Nurbeko said.

Before Michael could ask what they meant, Dr. Lee cut in. “Yes, yes, I know you’re thrilled you guessed how they would pick the defendants,” he muttered. To Michael, he said in a clearer voice, “She was one of Kren’s deputies and a talk-show host.” Michael had never heard of her before. The Minister of Information had had many deputies.

“That’s what I said.” Dr. Nurbeko was smiling like a child who had one-upped their sibling in something. 

Dr. Blueroot looked vaguely annoyed. “He doesn’t need your nonsensical references,” she chided her colleagues. “He’ll read the transcripts himself when the time comes.”

“Says the person who went on an hour-long rant about how by calling the army the Peacekeepers, the government appropriated...something or other,” Dr. Nurbeko teased. 

Without a word, Dr. Blueroot pointed to Michael. “Laugh all you want, but the defense lawyers will need our expertise,” she said in a steel voice.

Michael had never heard about Hans Fritzsche, he had no idea what the Tokyo Trial had been and was barely aware of the existence of Tokyo at all, and, worst of all, never in his legal training had anything from before the Cataclysm been brought up - but it was looking like the case would heavily rely on precedents from back then. “Will we be given access to this information?”

“Of course,” Dr. Blueroot said. “I talked to Ankara the other day, they have some cases that are sure to be brought up.”

Was Ankara a person or a place? Michael began to suspect that this would be the strangest trial he had ever participated in. “If I may ask, how many of the defendants have lawyers?”

“From the list? Maybe four or five have been confirmed, and five more still tentative. Your client asked for you by name. Many wanted to forbid it due to you being a Peacekeeper, but your record as a judge was deemed more than satisfactory.”

“Flawed justice is better than no justice at all,” Michael said.

Dr. Blueroot smiled. “Nice to see we’re on the same page here. How did you manage to avoid passing death sentences on defectors?”

“I passed the sentences I deemed appropriate,” Michael said icily. Silence fell, broken only by the sound of the car hitting potholes and debris. He looked out the window. Everything felt completely surreal. Michael had seen this destruction on television, and now it was just outside the window. The feeling only grew as they reached their destination. Lodgepole Municipality, home of the University of Panem, had been mostly destroyed in the fighting - but not the Justice Building, which still stood, if mildly damaged. The car had to pick its way through rubble-cleaning crews. 

“On a slightly more uplifting note,” Dr. Blueroot said, “we’re here.”

“That we are,” Dr. Lee agreed, craning his head to see. There was silence for a few minutes until he spoke again. “Miler will accompany you for now, right?”

“Of course,” Rine said. “I don’t need someone to try to rip off his insignia.” Michael winced. His rank was a reflection of all the hard work and dedication he had served with, and the idea of some random private, or, worse, a civilian, blatantly disrespecting that made him feel terrible. “Did you see the video with the warden and Thread?”

Michael shook his head, and Rine looked up something on his phone and passed it over. On the screen, a small group of soldiers led by a lieutenant was arresting several high-ranking Peacekeepers. When one of them, a middle-aged pale man who must have been Thread, tried to protest and insisted that a soldier could not be treated like that, the lieutenant proceeded to unceremoniously tear off his insignia. “Act like a criminal and be treated like a criminal,” the lieutenant said.

“Did you tell him to do that?” Dr. Lee asked Dr. Nurbeko, who smiled slightly. 

“You kidding me? Thread and his ilk have no right to claim to be soldiers.” They wilted under the other historian’s stare. “I may have recommended him several books to assist him in his historic task,” they admitted.

Despite their joking banter, Michael suspected that the historians were much more important than they let on. He imagined a meeting somewhere in the bowels of Thirteen, with functionaries poring over lists and deciding whom to indict and not indict. The word of someone who claimed to have deep knowledge of how such processes worked would have been of great import. 

“We’re here!” the driver called out. They climbed out into a scene of devastation. Michael had seen footage of the fighting, but to see the ruined buildings and heaps of rubble with his own eyes was completely different. It smelled strongly of antiseptic, and he wondered how many bodies were still buried under collapsed buildings. “That’s your billet, Dr. Wreath,” she said, pointing to a small, square building surrounded by work crews. “It used to be a dorm, but there won’t be any students around for a while.” She opened the trunk and began to take out the luggage.

Michael realized that they were standing on the campus of the University of Panem. It looked to be much bigger than the university in Two - but then again, few had been able to attend university there.

“Who are you?” someone said in a combative tone. Michael turned around to see a young soldier glaring at him. “What’s up with that uniform?” Without saying a word, Michael handed over his papers. “Huh. Why don’t you ditch the whites, then?” the soldier asked, handing them back. “Go on.”

“Don’t mind them,” the driver said as she set Michael’s suitcase by his feet. “Most aren’t so hyper.”

“It’s nothing.”

Rine motioned Michael to come with him. “Let’s go drop off your things, and I’ll explain to you what’s going on. Even though I don’t understand it myself.” They headed for the house, nearly colliding with an older woman on the stairs.

“Are you also a lawyer?” she asked, extending her hand. “I’m Honoria Baer. Pleased to meet you.” Michael realized that he knew her, by name if not by face.

Michael switched his suitcase to his other hand. “I’m Michael Wreath,” he said, “and I am indeed a lawyer, defending Admiral Best. I’ve always greatly respected your work.”

The president of the Panem Bar Association nodded. “Thank you. I’ve heard of you, too. The brilliant young military judge. I couldn’t have thought of a better person to defend Best. And you are?” she asked Rine, shaking his hand as well.

“Miler Rine. I’m with the IDC.”

Dr. Baer laughed. “And how’s that going?” The three of them went inside the building. Everything was in good repair, and the large windows let in plenty of light. 

“The country hasn’t fallen apart at the seams yet, but at the cost of having the Thirteen Chief of Counsel handle the preparations for the trial single-handedly.” Rine closed the door behind them.

“We noticed. To be quite frank, this is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Rine shrugged. “The only large-scale trials I’ve ever seen were sham top to bottom. I’d take chaos over that. Now, where is Dr. Wreath staying?”

“Any preferences?” Michael shook his head. “You can take one of the basement rooms, then. It doesn’t matter much, of course, we’re all practically living in our offices. That’s in the Justice Building. I was actually heading there myself, so Mr. Rine, if you have something to do, I’ll show Dr. Wreath around.”

“Thank you.” Rine waved a farewell and walked out the door. Dr. Baer led Michael down the stairs and into a small room. He gratefully put the suitcase and duffel bag on the carpeted floor and looked around.

The room was small, with two beds and a small closet. There were also two sockets and two bedside tables. Clearly, the expectation was that they would only come here to sleep. “Do you have a phone?” Dr. Baer asked.

Michael shook his head. He picked up his bag and took out his toiletries. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Down the corridor. It’s communal, so keep your things here.” Michael carefully put his soap, towel, and shaving things into the drawer of the table. 

“I don’t think the civilians will be too happy about these arrangements,” he said, taking his coat from the duffel and going to hang it up. He had thought it would be colder. Now, it would just hang there taking up space. Michael himself hadn’t lived in such sparse conditions for a long time, but it was much better than the Academy.

Dr. Baer shook her head. “High rations, free heating, free lodgings, good pay - even the infamy of the defendants isn’t keeping them away from here.” Michael pushed the empty duffel under his bed and opened his suitcase, which contained the rest of his things. “You’ll get free clothes, too. And a phone.”

“Whom are you defending?” Michael asked as he put his clothes away. Carefully wrapped in several shirts was the laptop he had managed to borrow at the last minute. He plugged it in to charge. 

“Irma Slice.” 

Michael remembered the historians’ jokes. “I heard a few people comparing her to someone from the past.”

“They’re like children,” Dr. Baer sighed. “Dr. Lee especially. He spent so long without someone he could be open with, it ruined him permanently. And they were at the forefront of the group that persuaded Coin to have trials instead of something more destructive, so I can’t blame them for being full of themselves.”

“It’s a moot point, isn’t it?” Michael asked as he wondered if he needed more socks already. “At the end of the day, Coin gave the Victors an ultimatum - mass executions or another Hunger Games. As if it was one or the other. As if nobody else’s opinions mattered. As if the NCIA didn’t kill more people each year than the Hunger Games.” He finished putting away his clothes and went back towards his bed. 

“We all owe the Mockingjay,” Dr. Baer said seriously. “And Paylor, even if I can’t shake the feeling that the trial is meant to be in lieu of Coin’s idea.”

Michael nodded. “I’m glad I voted for her.” A show trial of twenty-four leaders of the regime, even if a few of them - such as the Coast Guard officers - were innocent, was a much more appealing form of vengeance, even though this further sullying of the law was hardly welcome.

“So am I.” They headed outside. “We’ll walk to the Justice Building. It’s not too far.”

Outside, Michael’s eyes took some time to get readjusted to the bright sun. “This all feels so strange,” he admitted, looking around at the ruined buildings. “Do you feel like you were on the wrong side of history, even if you did nothing wrong?”

“We _were_ on the wrong side of history,” Dr. Baer said calmly. “But look at how the Rebellion is treating us.” She sighed. “I’d like to welcome you to the team,” she said in a more cheery voice, “and look forward to working with you.”

“Thank you.”

“Breakfast is at 7:30, lunch - 12:30, dinner - 18:30. The Justice Building is always open, so you can work whenever you want, and you may also talk to your client whenever you can, as long as he’s not being interrogated.” Noticing Michael’s confusion, she explained, “Until they are formally indicted, they are prisoners of war and can be interrogated at will.”

That technically made sense, and, after all, most of the people Michael had tried hadn’t had lawyers at all. “That doesn’t seem very legal to me,” he said.

“Slice is still in Thirteen,” Dr. Baer said. “I have no idea what’s happening to her. At least the rest are all here, and they have been informed of their rights. And the interrogators don’t as much as threaten them.”

Michael was beginning to feel that whoever was running the trial was making it up as they went. “If they know their rights, that’s acceptable.” He still wasn’t very happy about that. It was odd, how he had latched onto these concepts so quickly despite having lived his life without them for so long.

“The prosecution lives down there,” Dr. Baer said, pointing down a street. “It's a group of mostly undestroyed townhouses, you can’t miss it. And the journalists are billeted in a former socialite’s mansion. The socialite is now the cleaner.” 

“Ironic.” Michael had never had a very high opinion of the Capitol’s upper strata. 

“The judges are mostly staying with the military because they requisitioned the best houses, and also so they look more impartial. Military and civilian legal personnel are together, but not the other army people. Many of them arrived with nothing, so there are constant fights over resources. Ten’s chief prosecutor nearly got in a fight with the head documents clerk over a towel.” Baer hopped adroitly over a hole in the ground. “The defense gets all the good things, because they want to appear impartial.”

“That’s one way to hold a political trial,” Michael said admiringly, thinking of his nice billet. “I was promised I’d be able to access whatever documents I needed, and have assistants.”

Dr. Baer nodded. “If you have someone in mind, tell the Personnel Division.” Michael decided to ask Teck to help out. She was a good researcher and well-versed in the inner workings of the old system.

“How many people are working on this?” Michael asked wonderingly.

“Hundreds. Maybe even a thousand, if you count the clerks microfilming and digitizing the archives.”

“All that to hang twenty-four people?”

“I’m hoping that they’ll hang only twenty-three,” she said seriously. Michael understood. His client came first. 

“Let the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games begin,” he intoned. 

Dr. Baer laughed. “An apt comparison.”

Already outside the Justice Building it was clear that the entire place was a scene of the purest chaos. Jeeps zoomed around, people dashed to and fro, and the various doors of the place kept on opening and shutting. Inside, it was worse. Workers were fixing everything from the electricity to the very walls, exposed cables were everywhere, and Michael soon found himself lost in the maze of corridors. “And here are our offices,” Dr. Baer said as they entered a small corridor lined with doors at regular intervals. “Pick one.”

Michael walked into the closest one. It was a tiny room, with two desks, two chairs, and an empty bookcase and filing cabinet. He tried to turn on the lights, but nothing happened. “Is there electricity in here?”

“Not yet. What do you think of the place?”

“It’s nice that there are two desks,” he said. “I’m going to have my colleague over as an assistant. I’ve worked with her before, she’ll do well.”

Dr. Baer nodded thoughtfully. “Another military judge?” Michael answered affirmatively. “Has she been depurated yet?” 

“No. Does she need to? Do I?” A system of Depuration tribunals had been set up, trying everyone from neighbourhood watch leaders to high-ranking civil servants and assigning them to one of five categories. So-called major offenders were without exception executed or given prison sentences over five years, often with confiscation of property. Some offenders also received lengthy prison sentences or hefty fines, while others were banned from the military or civil service for life, sometimes in conjunction with a short sentence. Similar but often milder job restrictions and fines happened to the majority of minor offenders, and to be deemed a fellow traveller was tantamount to a slap on the wrist. The rarely given label of an exonerated person was given to only those who could prove they had done something to show their allegiance to the Rebellion, which in practice meant only those who had had the misfortune to be caught. So far, nobody had required a Depuration certificate from Michael.

“Not us, not for now at least. Though, if you want, you can submit your documents and be tried _in absentia_ , getting it over and done with.”

That sounded like a good idea. “I’ll do that, then,” he said. Given his high rank, he would have needed to prove that his sentences had been deliberately lenient in order to get the coveted label of ‘fellow traveller’, which he could not. Being labelled a minor offender would automatically exclude him from being an officer in the armed forces, but he could always get honourably discharged before that happened. Categories were ostensibly given for life, but it was possible to have one’s category reduced.

Dr. Baer then continued showing him around the Justice Building, telling him about the trial of the Gamemakers, which was in progress elsewhere. She still wasn’t sure what to think of it, and neither was Michael. The people running it were far from the best, as Coin had wanted a quick show trial, and the defense lawyers had also been selected almost randomly and often against their will. One of them was fresh out of law school.

As they discussed, Dr. Baer took him to the cafeteria, followed by the documents room, which was full of towering shelves, harried clerks, and computers attached to walls. “You can also go to various archives personally, or simply call them to request something. They’re good at interpreting vague queries.”

The first thing he’d need to do is access the Coast Guard archives, but that could wait a few hours. “Let’s finish the tour first,” he said.

“Of course.” He was then shown to the commissary, where members of the armed forces as well as trial staff got their allotments of soap and chocolate, as well as a myriad of other things. Michael was handed a cell phone. 

“Do you know how to use one?” Dr. Baer asked. Michael shook his head. “Press the asterisk, and then the green thing.” Carefully, Michael pushed the tiny buttons. The screen lit up. He tried to poke the screen, but nothing happened.

“It’s an older model,” he noticed. Newer ones had a touchscreen, even if it seldom worked. “Does it connect to the Web?”

Dr. Baer laughed. “Good luck using the Web on that little screen.” She was right. The screen looked to be two and a half by three and a half centimetres. “Now let me add everyone’s phone numbers. It’s not like a landline, where you need a phone book the size of a small submarine.”

“Convenient,” Michael said as he watched her fiddle with the little buttons. “Whose numbers are these?”

“All of the defense lawyers I know of so far, the IDC, the person in charge of cleaning the place where we’re staying, the National Archives, the Presidential Archives, and the university library, as well as a few black-market takeout places. You can add more people later.”

Michael nodded gratefully as he watched the older woman enter the numbers. “Where to next?” he asked.

“Uncle Ray’s Cafe.”

* * *

Uncle Ray’s was missing a wall and the roof was mostly tarp. Nevertheless, Dr. Baer swore that the coffee was first-rate and the pastries - indescribable. “What do you want?” she asked him. The place was mostly empty, save for a couple of clusters of well-dressed people. A colourless old man and a dark middle-aged woman in a wheelchair were staring at him, or rather, at his uniform.

“Coffee with sugar and, uh, something with fruits,” he said, eyes trying to take in all of the pastries on display. Michael wondered how much money the owner was spending on the black market and on bribes to keep the MP’s away. Given the exorbitant cost of everything, though, he had an idea.

“What size coffee?” the cashier, a pale bald woman, asked. “And do you want cream?”

“What?” Who did the owner know, to be openly selling cream in a time when potatoes were being rationed?

“Do you want cream?” Dr. Baer repeated. Michael nodded unthinkingly, still shocked by the prosperity of the dilapidated cafe. Turning to the cashier, Dr. Baer said, “Two medium double-doubles, twenty assorted donut holes, and that small fruit pie, please.” The cashier rang them up and went to make the coffees. Michael winced at the price, but said nothing, as Baer was paying. That done, she led them to the table with the two staring people.

Michael realized that the man was not old, merely middle-aged. His short wavy hair didn’t have a drop of colour in it, though, and when added to his watery blue eyes and pink-tinged skin, it made him look more albino than anything. The woman likewise had short-cropped hair, but colour-wise, she was his opposite. Her legs ended just below the knee, and her short trousers zipped shut at the bottom to hide them. “Look who I brought,” Dr. Baer said to them as she approached, holding their food.

“Donut holes? Excellent,” the woman said, reaching out to take the box. “Ah, chocolate. My favourite.”

Dr. Baer sat down next to her, leaving Michael to sit down in the only available chair. “You’re welcome to them, then,” she said.

“You’re defending Best and Verdant, I assume?” the man said in an uninspiring whisper. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Lucius Fisher.” He sounded anxious, and Michael wondered if he was one of those people who struggled to talk to someone one-on-one but could speak in public with no problems. “I’m defending Blues.”

“I’m Michael Wreath,” Michael said in an encouraging tone, taking his hand and shaking it. “I’m defending Admiral Best. I don’t know who’s defending Verdant, but I assume we’ll work together.”

The woman nodded. “We’re all going to work together,” she said seriously, with no sign of her previous jocularity. “My name’s Jessica Low, and I’m defending Dovek.” Michael looked at her in a new light as he shook her hand. The former Minister of Internal Affairs was already shaping up to be the star defendant, and Michael wouldn’t have agreed to take his case for anything. “The case is perfectly defensible,” she said confidently, “and I know that we can all put the prosecution in a position where they have to give up, as long as we can stay together.”

Michael tried his coffee and nearly spat it out. It was horribly sweet. “What’s in this?” he demanded of Dr. Baer. 

“Two spoons of sugar and two - of cream.”

Michael glanced suspiciously at the cup. “It’s horribly sweet.” He’d need to be extra-careful about brushing his teeth if he was supposed to drink this swill on the regular.

“Are you from Two?” Dr. Low asked. Michael nodded. “Welcome to the Capitol. Everyone drinks overly sweet coffee and eats baked goods here, or at least they used to, though most never had it as good as we do now. At Uncle Ray’s, the coffee is excellent and the baked goods - fresh. And the chocolate donut holes are to die for. Try one!” she said, gesturing at the box.

Feeling foolish, Michael picked up the little ball. It was dark-brown and soft, and tasted just like chocolate. He smiled at the sweetness. “This is great!” he said, chewing. “Did everyone really eat this all the time?” He wondered why Teck had never told him about them before chiding himself for getting distracted with nonsense.

Dr. Low shook her head. “Only the rich. The coffee shops that catered to the poorer people sold burnt coffee and donut holes made of I don’t even know what.” She glanced inside the box. “There’s six kinds,” she said. “Try one of each!” Michael did as asked. His favourite ended up being the honey-flavoured.

“I prefer the plain ones,” Dr. Baer said. Dr. Fisher said nothing, staring at his lap. Michael felt sorry for the timid man.

“You’re all from the Capitol, I’m assuming?” Nods all around. “You, Dr. Baer-”

“Please, just call me Baer.” 

“Same, please,” said the other two.

Titles dispensed with, Michael continued, a little bit ill at ease. He wasn’t sure how to interact with people informally when he had just met them. “I know what you did,” he said. “But what about the two of you? Were you also lawyers? I myself was a judge in the Coast Guard.”

“I was a lawyer,” Low said. “I mostly dealt with corporate law. It all rotated around bribes, of course, but I was needed to explain how big the bribe needed to be.” She snorted disdainfully. “Big business was a cesspit.” Michael wondered what she thought about Chaterhan.

“You don’t have to tell me!” Baer exclaimed, taking a large sip of her coffee. Michael picked up his pie, which was as big as his palm without the fingers, and took a bite. It also turned out to be very sweet, though the taste of apples and peaches was very welcome. He’d need to be careful about how often he ate at these places. Too much sugar would wreak havoc with his energy levels. “And you, Fisher? You never told me what you did.”

Fisher shrugged. “I was a public defender.” Michael doubted he had been any good, with that voice of his. Had Fisher tried to argue with Michael, he suspected he’d have torn the pale man to shreds. “I spent the first few years dealing with petty theft and drug dealing and the like, but I’ve been dealing with the serious political cases since then.”

It all fell into place. The timidity was most likely not an act, but it was definitely exaggerated. The worst thing a public defender in such cases could have done was to appear threatening, and by acting like he was about to crumple into a ball, the likes of Judge Lophand had been misled into not targeting him for defending enemies of the state too zealously even as Fisher had done precisely that. 

“You don’t have to keep up the act, you know,” Michael said. “Just be yourself.”

Fisher looked at him, face twisted in confusion. “What act?” he asked.

Michael decided to drop it. “Nothing,” he said. “I forgot what I was getting at.”

An awkward silence ensued. Michael sipped his coffee, trying not to show how embarrassed he felt. Fisher stared at the floor, tapping his hands on the table. Low took a donut hole and ate it. Baer took out her phone and called someone.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asked. “Yeah, same. Have you looked at the recordings yet?..well, of course there’s a lot of them, it was a weekly show...” Michael realized she was talking to one of her assistants. “Look, I know it’s mostly useless, but the prosecution is going to latch on to every other word, and we need to be able to tell if it’s out of context and prepare rebuttals.” Silence. “Propaganda? She just parroted what Kren told her...I know that’s how they’re going to spin it, the argument is flawed at the root...write down the timecode, alright? The transcripts still haven’t arrived...good. Good. Goodbye.” She put away her phone and sighed.

“They’re using Slice as a replacement for Kren,” Low said, “so they’re trying to push all of his propaganda onto her.”

Baer nodded. “Not just him. Since Flickerman and Templesmith also committed suicide-”

“They need a symbol of the propaganda machine,” Michael said. It was the same with the deputies. A veritable wave of suicides had passed over the Capitol during the last phase of the fighting, forcing many to answer for the crimes of their superiors. “Someone relatively visible. And Lark doesn’t count, because he did his own thing.” He may have been the “evening loudmouth”, infamous throughout the Capitol, but he had never held an actual position in the Ministry of Information.

“Exactly,” Low said. “Though that stretches the meaning of the word ‘relatively’.” She sighed. She herself had the opposite problem. While nobody outside the Capitol had ever known of Dovek, inside it he had been extremely prominent, constantly scheming for the position of Snow’s right hand. 

Low’s plan would be to expose the illegitimacy of the tribunal as there was simply no other possibility for her and her client, that much Michael knew without asking her. She’d also most likely try to cast him as a patriot who did what was necessary, but given the prominent role he had played in the Games, it would leave a bad taste in the mouth of everyone.

Michael was lucky enough to have a case that allowed for more nuance. The vast majority of Best’s actions had been no different than what Thirteen admirals had done.

Fisher looked up suddenly, focusing his dim eyes on Michael. “You were a military judge,” he said in an almost-whisper. “With the Coast Guard.”

“Yes,” Michael said warily. 

“Did you ever sentence children?” In anyone else’s mouth, the words would have taken on an accusing tone, but Fisher sounded more afraid than anything. For the first time, Michael wished he wasn’t wearing his uniform.

“Since the IDC allowed me to take this job, that should be proof enough that my record was deemed satisfactory,” he replied.

Fisher kept his gaze trained on Michael. “I defended those children,” he said in a monotone. “Some of them were too young to understand what was going on. They looked around the courtroom, unaware of the fact that their lives were being decided at that moment. One of my clients was too young to understand what it meant to be sentenced to death. Others, even younger, were turned into Avoxes. And all because their parents had been desperate enough to try to flee _to_ the Capitol. It was worse in the Districts. And the Coast Guard, I presume.”

“I never sentenced a single person to death and never sentenced an underage person to be turned into an Avox,” Michael said, feeling like he was being forced to justify himself. He tried to imagine a child too young to comprehend what the death penalty was being sentenced to death and felt sick. “Of that, you can be assured.”

“How?” Fisher asked. “I’ve heard of judges being fired when they ignored the phone calls they got from above.”

“I assume it was different in the Coast Guard,” Michael replied. “It was left up to me to decide.”

“And had you been ordered?”

Michael didn’t want to think about that. “Then maybe I’d have been your client right now, not your coworker.”

Unexpectedly, the three laughed at that. “That’s how it goes,” Low said seriously. “If I had become a prosecutor like I had intended, would my career have survived the Rebellion? It’s easy to complain about victors’ justice - and make no mistake, that’s exactly what this trial is - but there were some horrible criminals ruling over us before, and I can’t blame the Districts for wanting revenge.”

* * *

Teck was on the phone with someone as Michael walked in, documents in his hands, and sat down. “Yes, that would be great,” she said. “Just send out the word and tell them to contact me.” Michael realized she was talking to one of the assistants in charge of fetching witnesses. “Yes, thank you...goodbye.” She looked up at him. “List was just finalized,” she said, shoving a piece of paper at him. “Prosecution might shuffle around somewhat, but all of the defense lawyers are here.”

Michael looked at the paper. At the top, the word ‘Prosecution’ was underlined, with twelve columns of varying lengths. District Twelve was only sending in a judge and a clerk for the documents division, while Thirteen’s prosecution staff was nearly as large as those of the other Districts put together, due to how many legal professionals had defected there from the Capitol. Defectors from other Districts were representing their homes.

At the bottom, there were two columns of defendants and their lawyers.

_Dovek - Low | Oldsmith - Pinto_  
_Bright - Rankin | Lux - Tuss_  
_Cotillion - Beeker | Blatt - Andric_  
_Verdant - Alli | Best - Wreath_  
_Krechet - Aichele | Talvian - Gupta_  
_Chaterhan - Shaw | Blues - Fisher_  
_Lark - Romita | Thread - Madaichik_  
_Ledge - Desai | Brack - Njoki_  
_Dijksterhuis - Woolock | Pollman - Hopkins_  
_Toplak - Tornabene | Kirji - Zhu_  
_Lee - Vargas | Coll - Levy_  
_Grass - Jamieson | Slice - Baer_

Below that were phone numbers. The first thing Michael did was take out his phone and call Alli. After a few rings, they picked up.

“Hello?” a masculine voice replied. “This is Cesario Alli.”

“Good day, Dr. Alli,” Michael said. “My name is Michael Wreath, and I will be defending Admiral Best in the trial.”

In the meanwhile, Teck had gone back to talking to someone on her own phone, typing on her laptop with one hand, and flipping through a book covered with sticky notes with the other.

“I’ve heard about you,” Alli said. “Please, dispense with the titles. We will be working together, after all. Would you like to meet up today to start planning? I was only taken on today, so I’m in the Coast Guard archives right now, doing research on my client.”

That wasn’t too far away. “That sounds good,” Michael said. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Michael ended the call and looked at Teck, who was busy with writing a description of some sort of invasion. “What’s that?” he asked. The indictment still hadn’t been openly revealed, but some of its content could be easily guessed.

“Aggressive warfare,” she explained. “I’m writing an explanation of why the precedents established at the Tokyo Trial do not apply here.” Michael had pulled an all-nighter reading about the two trials the tribunal was sure to reference constantly, and his head was still spinning from it all. He had asked the historians for something about the subsequent proceedings that had followed one of it, as the words ‘Judges’ Trial’ made him feel curious, anxious, and ashamed in equal measure. Dr. Blueroot had muttered something about the failure of transitional justice before going back to writing a monograph about Talaat Pasha, about whom Michael also now knew far too much about, but Dr. Nurbeko had promised to send him some books.

“Can’t you just say that the pact McCollum signed applies only to other countries?” Before the Dark Days, the then-president had signed a pact with various countries in North and South America pledging to eschew aggressive warfare. Since the writers of the pact had neglected to specify which countries this promise to refrain from war referred to, it could be interpreted in various ways. “No,” he realized. “The entire point of that charge is that the Treaty of Treason was technically a peace treaty, so the firebombing of Twelve was an act of undeclared war according to them. They’re going to say that the Districts got their independence during the Dark Days and were then occupied by a hostile power.”

Teck nodded. “And Snow’s speeches will be used to prove that this is the correct interpretation of the situation. If they try to mention-”

The phone rang. “Hello?” Michael said. “This is-”

“I know who you are,” muttered an electronically garbled voice. “Traitor. You legitimize the victors’ justice we Peacekeepers are subjected to.”

Michael realized that the phone numbers must have gotten out. He ended the call and shoved his phone in his pocket. “Nonsensical threats,” he explained to Teck. “I’m off to meet Alli.”

* * *

A few days later, the Inter-District Military Tribunal sat for the first time. The judges swore an oath to use their powers impartially and conscientiously, the rights of the defendants were read out, making all of the defense lawyers feel a little bit more confident, and the indictment was publicly revealed for the first time. Inside the walls of the Justice Building, the Districts were still as united as ever, despite the ever-widening cracks Michael was familiar with from the newspapers.

“Honestly,” Michael overheard someone say, “this was a mistake. They can hang for all I care, but now the Districts will be demanding revenge all over again.”

People from the Districts tended to view it in a different light. No matter where they were from, everyone had found something to be shocked about. Michael, too, had been outraged. Best was being accused of four of the five counts - conspiracy, war crimes, crimes against humanity other than the Hunger Games, and aggression. He wasn’t sure what count was more absurd - the first or the last. They were using a framework established to deal with a world war to explain a civil war.

In his office, a thin monograph awaited him. “One of the historians gave it to us,” Teck explained, typing away. “She thinks that the political organization of the Holy Roman Empire can be likened to Panem.”

“What’s that?” Michael asked, picking up the book and reading the back cover. “I cannot believe they’re going to go all the way back to 1474,” he said. “At least the Dirty War wasn’t nearly a millennium ago.”

“Baer’s spitting mad,” Teck said. “She wanted to say that the tribunal does not have jurisdiction, but it turns out that they already went over this before - in the fifteenth century.” She would, of course, still try, citing the unique relationship between the Capitol and the Districts. A few of them had spent hours the other day hashing out a draft of a statement to that fact. “Also, this is the first known case where the doctrine of command responsibility was cited.”

Michael sat down and began to flip through the book, looking for the right place. He sighed with relief when he read that particular passage. “It’s not a true precedent, though,” he said. “Merely proof that awareness of these issues already existed in those days.” Nevertheless, it would pose a problem. The more widespread, the more universalistic these concepts were made out to be, the harder it would be to convince the judges that Best had had no chance whatsoever of finding out about them.

Five counts. A common plan or conspiracy, the implementation of the Hunger Games, war crimes, other crimes against humanity, and crimes against peace or aggression; Best was being accused of all but the second. Michael’s task would not be to prove that his client was innocent of the charges laid against him. That was going to be exceedingly difficult, if not impossible. But if he was able to show that none of these charges were legally viable and that the tribunal had no jurisdiction, that would deal with the issue at the root.

The first would be the easiest. Conspiracy was notoriously difficult to define, and all he’d have to do was argue it was criminal, but no conspiracy in the strict sense of the word. War crimes would be the hardest, as many of the orders Best had signed fell directly into long-established definitions of war crimes. Crimes against humanity had also been established as a legal concept long ago, though there were less precedents there, giving Michael more wiggle room. And the charge of aggression was, of course, sheer absurdity. To rebut that charge would be to give it more credence than it deserved.

Not having the mental capacity to deal with that at the moment, Michael picked up a book about piracy and sat down to read it, ostensibly to familiarize himself with recent developments in maritime law. In reality, though, he simply found it very interesting. His fascination with the topic built with every book he read, probably because this was, after all, his area of expertise. 

The doctrine of universal jurisdiction had first been created to deal with pirates, and it had later been extended. For that reason, a person could be tried in the Capitol for acts committed in Eleven. 

“At least that’s one thing we were spared,” Teck said, noticing what he was reading. “An advantage of isolationism.”

* * *

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Teck said, not looking up from the copy of the indictment she was highlighting and writing all over.

The door opened, and a short, dark man walked in. “Good day,” he said. “I’m Miroslav Aurelius, chief psychologist.” 

Michael hadn’t requested a psychologist, though with the amount of work he could see in his future, one would be very helpful. “Do you need something?” he asked.

“I thought our appointment is tomorrow,” Teck said.

Michael was surprised, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Healthy people didn’t hoard non-perishables or binge-eat. “I can leave,” he offered. He needed to go to the archive in any case.

“Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you right now, Dr. Wreath.”

“About what?”

Dr. Aurelius smiled. “Anything,” he said. “I need a break. First I’m being dragged all over the wing with the key criminals, then I need to meet with juveniles down at the centre. Just this morning, I interviewed a fifteen-year-old girl who stabbed her rapist to death while he slept.” He sighed. “She’s got developmental disabilities on top of the usual teenage impulsiveness, and she was trafficked for two years before this. If she’s tried as an adult, I’ll be the one stabbing the judge to death.”

Neither Michael nor Teck smiled, even though the psychologist’s last words had been spoken in a lighter tone. Both of them knew full well that, had the judiciary not been depurated, it would all have hinged on how connected the victim and defendant had been - and underage victims of trafficking had been among the most vulnerable in that regard. “I’m sure you’ll do well,” Michael said in an encouraging tone.

“Thank you.” Dr. Aurelius sat down on a stack of large tomes. “What do you think of the proceedings so far?”

“It’s a mixed bag,” Teck said, not looking up from the indictment. “I’ll be the first to say that the Games were criminal, but none of the defendants started it.” She turned her attention to the computer and searched through many tabs before finding one with the text of an order to burn a village in Four to the ground that had been signed by Best fifteen years ago. “On the other hand, that kind of logic could be used to exonerate Snow. Counts One and Five are nonsense, but the atrocities that happened in the Districts are undeniable.”

Dr. Aurelius nodded. “And what do you think of your adversaries?”

Teck did not reply, as she was too busy trying to explain away the order by citing military necessity, so Michael spoke up instead. “I’ve read the article Mary Irons wrote for the newspapers.” The Thirteen attorney was the Chief of Counsel, but had to dedicate her time to solving the myriad little problems plaguing the prosecution. “It was excellent, but I haven’t seen much of any of them besides it.”

“She does have a way with words, doesn’t she?” the psychologist asked, smiling gently.

“Guess who the historians are comparing her to,” Teck snarked.

Dr. Aurelius chuckled. “I don’t need to guess. And just to make all our lives that much better, I’ve heard rumours that she’s not the best cross-examiner.”

That made sense - there hadn’t been many opportunities for someone to learn in Thirteen. “Any rumours as to what she will do?” Feeling uncomfortable simply sitting there and looking at the psychologist, Michael picked up his laptop and began to sort through scans of documents from the Coast Guard archive, looking for anything that could be of use.

“No idea,” Dr. Aurelius said. “I’ve heard that she really wants to confront Dovek, as she was unable to participate in Snow’s trial.”

Michael wondered what would happen if the prosecution was incompetent. On one hand, he had met with all of the defense lawyers already, and knew them all to be at least capable of doing their jobs properly. On the other hand, the evidence was so damaging, a sizable percentage of their job would be simply trying to mitigate the awful reality. “We’ll see what happens when it does,” he said, wondering when that would be. The beginning of the trial was nowhere in sight.

* * *

The visiting room was long and narrow, with no separation between the defendants at all. Michael could tell that it would be cacophony once everyone was talking to their clients at once. For now, though, Michael was the only one. He took his seat, seeing Admiral Best up close for the first time.

In shabby overalls from Thirteen and with his white hair neatly buzzed, Best looked like a retired soldier who had kept in shape. Despite his advanced age, he sat up straight and his gaze was clear. Lawyer and client were separated by a clear barrier of bulletproof glass punched with small holes to make speaking easier. There was a drawer in front of them that could be used to pass things back and forth.

“Are you familiar with the rules?” the gum-chewing soldier hovering over his shoulder asked. Michael nodded. If he wanted to pass something on to Best, he had to give it to the soldier first. Only papers could be passed on, and no paperclips or staples were allowed, which Michael could already tell would be a huge hassle.

“Good day,” he told Best.

“Good day to you too, Dr. Wreath,” he replied in a firm voice. “Thank you for agreeing to represent me.”

“It is my honour to defend my onetime commander and the honour of the Coast Guard,” Michael said sincerely. It pained him to see Best dressed in shabby clothes and flanked by soldiers armed with clubs. Best had been the founder of the Coast Guard as an independent branch and he had led it until his retirement, upon which he had been succeeded by the young and ambitious Verdant. Michael had met Best once or twice before, and had gotten a very favourable impression of the Admiral.

Best nodded. “Have you looked at the archives yet?” he asked, getting straight to the point.

Michael took out a stapled document and a loose sheet of paper. He took out the staple and handed the pages to the soldier, glad that it was numbered. The soldier flipped through it perfunctorily and put it into the drawer. She pushed it forward, and Best took the pages out, careful to get all of the sheets at the same time. “This is the list of potentially useful documents I have gathered so far,” Michael said. “Is there something missing?”

Best took out his glasses from his pocket, put them on, and began to read. “Could I have a pencil?” he asked the soldier.

“Could you please write down suggestions on this piece of paper?” Michael asked, passing it on. “Keep those pages. I can print off another copy later.” 

Best nodded gratefully. “I’ll write it down on both,” he said, “so I don’t forget.”

They sat in silence for a while. Nobody else was there at the moment, as Michael had shown up as early as possible. Best read the list carefully, writing notes here and there. He looked completely at ease with his new situation, and, indeed, he had surrendered peacefully when the Rebels had come to his house. Verdant, however, had jumped out a window, shattering his leg as a result. There had also been rumours of brain injury, but then it had been revealed that he was simply suffering from his annual attack of cluster headaches. How he had managed to serve in the Peacekeepers with cluster headaches was a mystery nobody understood.

“That’s all I can think of for now,” Best eventually said just as Baer walked into the room, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. “I’m fairly sure the records from Chichagof were destroyed-”

“They weren’t,” Michael said. “They were hidden haphazardly and a team of archivists is still putting them in order.”

Best was taken aback. “Were any of the records destroyed?” he asked.

“There was some low-scale destruction in a few of the Districts,” Michael said. Best’s face fell visibly. “Also, I have access to Thirteen’s naval archives, though my colleague will have to personally fly out to there.”

Upon hearing that, Best’s expression turned to that of shock. “They’re letting you see their archives?” he asked incredulously.

Michael nodded. “Yes, and I am also theoretically allowed to call them as witnesses. That reminds me,” he said, holding up the other sheet of paper. “This is the list of witnesses so far. I am going to the Witness House tomorrow morning to talk to Lieutenant Stone, and I’ll also interview Ensign Hebert.” Hebert was being held in a separate wing of the jail.

On the other side of the glass, Slice, Ledge, and Dijksterhuis were brought in. Slice looked completely disoriented while the other two just looked tired. 

“We’re going to need to get some officers from Thirteen,” Best said, watching his co-defendants sit down. Desai and Woolock walked in at that moment, and Michael waved at them. “They’ll be able to prove that we did nothing that they didn’t.”

It had been made clear that the ‘you did it, too’ argument would not be accepted, but Baer had noticed a loophole which Michael was going to exploit. The laws regulating naval warfare were very vague. If only he could prove in the courtroom that Thirteen had done the same and thus they had both done nothing wrong, that would neatly evade the issues of the _tu quoque_ argument. Best of all, it had worked before, which meant that he’d be able to stand up in court and refer to specific precedents, which the prosecution thought would be its domain.

“That is exactly my plan,” Michael said. That still left the issue of the low-level atrocities, but that was what the Coast Guard witnesses were for.

* * *

The Witness House was a scene of chaos, and the trial hadn’t even started yet. All sorts of people were running around, from high-ranking Peacekeeper officers to survivors from Twelve. “Hello,” Michael told the person sitting at a desk in the lobby. “I am here to meet Lieutenant Martha Stone.”

“You’re the lawyer?” the person asked, a middle-aged tan woman who looked severely wrung out. Michael nodded. She turned to her computer and looked at what was presumably a list. “Room 409.”

Michael went to the fourth floor and found room 409. The house had once been the palatial townhouse of some celebrity, but now it was the place for witnesses who had no other place to stay. Michael had requested the lieutenant to arrive, and she had done so within days. When Michael knocked on the open door, four female Peacekeepers looked up from their game of cards, leapt up, and saluted.

“At ease,” Michael said after returning their salute. “Lieutenant Stone, I’m here to interview you. You others - continue as you were.” He motioned Stone towards himself. “Is there anywhere to sit down?”

“My cot,” she said, motioning him towards it. “This is about the incident with the baby, right?”

Michael nodded as he sat down. “Exactly. I am aware that your commanding officer buried it.” Stone nodded. “On whose orders?”

“Nobody’s. He told us he’d deal with it.”

“Did he say why?” The commanding officer had committed suicide, but the case had been too shocking for the prosecution to ignore. A patrol had opened fire on a boat without warning, and, upon discovery that there was a baby still alive in the boat, one of the Peacekeepers had shot it. The incident had been filed as a successful elimination of a group of defectors, and the gory details ignored and forgotten until the prosecution had gotten its hands on the files.

“No.” She shrugged. “Maybe he was afraid of what would happen if everyone found out.”

This could be a step in the right direction. “Even though you were all aware of Admiral Best’s orders to deal with defectors with the strictest severity?”

Stone nodded, tapping her fingers on the blanket. “We didn’t think that was what it meant. I don’t remember who shot the baby, but the rest of us were all horrified. We didn’t want it getting out. None of us did. And once it was buried in the archives, we tried to forget about it.”

“Are you aware that this was the general pattern for such incidents?” Stone looked confused. “When it came to such killings, they were described as having occurred in the heat of the moment. Every single time.”

Stone shrugged. “It seemed unprofessional. And that’s not what the Admiral had ordered, so we were worried about having gone too far.”

“You believed and believe that the Admiral’s orders were not an incitement to such killings.” Stone nodded. That was still not fully it. Michael would still have to deal with a direct written order to destroy any craft in Panem territorial waters. He was going to say that they could have been armed, but he’d need to do more research to find cases when that had occurred. “How did you interpret that order?” he continued.

* * *

Teck walked into the office, where Michael was talking with Alli. “I think I’ve got some Thirteeners lined up,” she said, and sat down under the desk, grabbing her laptop and several books. 

“Really?” Alli asked, smiling at Teck. The middle-aged criminal lawyer had been homeless for months after an artillery barrage had destroyed his building, which made him think that he could relate to her. “Who exactly?”

She took a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Michael. A column of names, a column of ranks, a column of what exactly they could say in Best’s or Verdant’s favour. Alli and his team all deferred to Teck when it came to research. “Mostly lower-ranking officers,” Michael said. “Unrestricted submarine warfare?”

At last, Teck had found proof that Thirteen had fired on Panem craft without warning once they had gotten too close. Having actual hard evidence would help their case greatly.

“We’ll tear that one to shreds,” Teck muttered as she took a large book out of her bag. “Do you think the Armenian Genocide will be relevant to the trial?”

Michael wished the historians would stop sticking their noses into everyone’s business. “Give the book to Low, or Pinto, or anyone for whom that is actually relevant,” he snarled with more emotion than he had intended. “Has there been such a huge shortage of massacres after the Cataclysm, they need to go back to the twentieth century?”

Teck shook her head. “There has been a severe shortage of prosecutions for massacres.”

“Oh,” Alli said. “You know, that explains a lot.” He typed a few quick notes before standing up to put the book he was reading back on a shelf. The office was crammed with shelves, and the little free space on the floor was covered with books and photocopies of documents.The disorder galled Michael to no end, but Teck always kept the chaos from becoming too great. All the books on the shelves were nearly ordered, and so were the files in the cabinet. “Have you found anything about the small craft yet?”

“We’ll just extrapolate. Any craft could be armed, and Panem’s borders were, after all, locked.”

* * *

The phone rang, and Michael scrambled to dig it out of his pocket. It was an unfamiliar number. “Hello?” he asked, hoping this wouldn’t be yet another death threat.

“Mikey?” He nearly dropped the phone at hearing his mother’s voice. “Is that you?”

“Uh, yes, Ma,” he replied, trying to not trip over his words. Teck spun around to face him, one hand hovering over her keyboard.

“Mikey, it is you!”

“Yes, Ma, it’s me. How are you doing?” He felt a little bit guilty for not having called his parents for three years now, but there had always been something in the way.

“Oh, we’re doing fine. How are you? We heard about you on the television. We’re so proud of you!”

“Uh, thanks, Ma.” Michael should have realized that his name would have come up at some point, if only because there weren’t that many Peacekeeper dress uniforms around nowadays. “I’m doing fine. It’s a lot of research, but it’s fulfilling.”

“Of course it is! You’re representing the honour of Two-” that was news to Michael “-and we all look forward to seeing you in court. Hold on, let me get your Da.” The line went silent.

Before Michael could say something to Teck, his father was speaking. “Mikey?” he asked. “It’s been so long!”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, Da. I’ve been busy.”

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.” Teck was staring at him wide-eyed. “How are you, Da?”

“Oh, we’re fine. Same old, same old. When are you coming back?”

“When the trial is over.”

Da sighed. “Don’t you know the month, at least?”

“Nobody knows the exact month.” Michael had been in Lodgepole for months now, with no start date in sight.

“True.” There was a pause. “We saw you on television. We’re all cheering for you here. We know you’ll honour the uniform.”

“Thanks, Da. Uh, I’m really busy right now. There’s a lot of cases I need to read. So, uh-”

“Of course,” Da said sadly. “Do try to call us from time to time, alright? Bye, Mikey.”

“Bye.” Something clicked. Michael stared at his phone.

“I never knew you could speak in accent,” Teck said, turning back to her laptop. “Weren’t you upper-class?”

“Upper-class small-town Two,” Michael reminded her. “I learned the standard accent in university.”

Teck nodded. “You still sounded like you’re from a quarry.” She paused. “Though I don’t even want to know what I sound like,” she said in the accent she had grown up speaking. Indeed, the sounds did not match with the uniform and proud title ‘Dr. Teck’. 

“You sound like you should be the defendant, not the defense lawyer,” Michael said. Teck laughed and reached over to grab a stack of documents from a box on the floor.

* * *

The trial was still many weeks away, and Michael was feeling mildly optimistic. With every passing day, it became more and more clear that the trial would not be a show one. While the judges would, of course, be biased, Michael was certain that he would be able to count on their professionalism. Having the victors judge the vanquished still left a bad taste in his mouth, but there was no better alternative, and given the rumours of various plans that had been proposed before that still circulated, Michael was willing to accept a flawed trial as the least of evils. The fact that his client looked quite good by comparison with many of the others helped. It would take effort - nobody was getting any sleep - but Michael felt reasonably confident that, assuming the proceedings went fairly, Best’s execution was by no means a foregone conclusion.

At the moment, he was going through some documents dealing with a thorny issue, albeit one that Michael didn’t have to worry about too much. In order to justify their position, the prosecution was going to present the Districts as having been separate entities under occupation and administration of the Capitol de-facto if not de-jure. That was inaccurate. The lawyers’ job was to convince the judges that the acts of violence committed by certain Peacekeepers had been acts of isolated police brutality, not part of a policy of military occupation.

A much greater issue was that of the limits of military necessity, an issue that was at the centre of Best’s case. As a former judge, Michael knew that plenty of seemingly illegal acts had been committed because there simply had not been any other option. If there was a Rebel cell in a village, it was impossible to investigate every single person. Often, hostage-taking had been the only way to prevent attacks. And international conventions were on the side of the defense this time - partisans were not lawful belligerents, and thus not protected by the Hague Conventions.

Michael leaned back in his chair, flipping through the documents. His laptop was lying on a stack of file folders in front of him, and the entire office was full of books and papers. Teck was officially his assistant, but in reality, it was the other way around. Her role of primary researcher made her more important to the case than Michael, who would actually represent Best in the courtroom. 

“Excuse me?” someone said at the door. Michael looked up to see Fisher. “I was wondering if you’d perhaps like to go to Uncle Ray’s with me, if you have the free time.” He smiled wanly. “I need to stop thinking about this for five minutes.” In his hands he had his laptop and a folder, belying his words.

“Of course,” Michael said in an encouraging voice before catching himself. Fisher was better than any actor Michael had ever heard of. “I need a break, too.” Teck did not look up from a compendium of cases that dealt with joint criminal enterprise. The assistants didn’t mingle much, and Michael had heard jokes about them being chained to their desks.

“How’s it going?” Fisher asked as Michael put his laptop and the documents into a bag, as well as one of his books about piracy he was reading to relax. 

“Tired,” he replied as he walked out of his office. “I have to talk to Best later this evening.”

Fisher nodded. “Same. I stayed up all night with Levy and Hopkins, and I have to talk to Blues this evening.” Levy was Coll’s lawyer, and Hopkins - Pollman’s. Michael quickly figured out what the three defendants had in common.

“The forced labourers?”

“Yes,” he replied, nodding glumly. “There’s just no way for the three of us to work together successfully. Either we all go down swinging together or start passing the poison chalice to each other, saving two and dooming one.” He sighed, then waved his hand dismissively. “But I don’t want to bother you with that. What do you think of Lophand’s arrest?”

That day, it had been revealed that the former political judge had been found at his cottage. The expectation was that he would soon face trial in his turn. “He was a stain on the good name of legal professionals everywhere,” Michael said. “What do you think?”

“It’s very strange. It’s like the judges and defendants got swapped, but we lawyers are still the same.”

“You forget I was a judge,” Michael pointed out. His phone rang. “Sorry. I need to get this.”

On the tiny screen was the name ‘Athena Tuss’. Tuss, a onetime public defender and staunch anti-militarist, had ended up assigned to Lux, the former Commander-in-Chief, much to her horror. Like any other good lawyer, she was rising to the occasion with professionalism and dedication. 

Michael fumbled with the tiny buttons as he tried to accept the call. “Hello,” he said as they walked out into the warm afternoon. Spring was already in full swing. “What is it?”

“Dr. Teck just got in touch with some people in Thirteen,” she replied. Michael strained to hear her over the sound of people walking and talking. “They really purged theirs, and it was actually deliberately targeted. Claiming that they did it, too, won’t help us.” That had been expected, as the purges were no secret, but Michael hadn’t expected it to be so targeted. 

According to international law, the use of children under the age of sixteen for combat was illegal. Thirteen had started military training at fourteen, but under-sixteens had not been deliberately sent to the front as a matter of official policy. Nevertheless, there were credible reports of oral instructions to local leaders to send any volunteer, no matter how young, to the Capitol for the final assault. Now, they were being accused of pointlessly wasting the future of Panem when there had been plenty of able-bodied adults in auxiliary roles who could have been sent instead. Some of it was just a facet of Thirteen’s odd culture shining through - without the defectors, their birth rate was only above replacement level thanks to extreme incentives for those who had many children, and thus children were greatly valued - but some was the desire to have the moral high ground over the Capitol and accuse them of being child-killers.

“Did you get confirmation for Lux’s order?” His order to graduate cadets as young as twelve and send them to the fight was most likely genuine, but it was always important to check carefully.

“It’s genuine. There are also more credible witnesses to the fact than could ever testify.”

“That’s damning, then.” Her entire plan had been a sort of reverse _tu quoque_ , similar to what Michael was planning on doing. 

The bigger issue was the mining of the coastal waters and the order to shoot defectors on sight, and only capture if possible. The justification given that it had been to prevent them from giving away state secrets and spreading lies, but that was patently absurd. Panem was not at war with anyone, not when it was the only country in the world with nuclear weapons. And if the government had been so concerned about lies, it wouldn’t have remained so silent, not even tossing out the occasional propaganda line. The ‘national security’ defense was the only one Michael could think of at the moment, though. Or maybe he should bite the bullet and stress how Best had been born with the regime and had thus been unable to understand that such things were illegal? He didn’t want to make his client sound like an idiot, not when he still respected him greatly as his onetime commander, but some of the documents on which Best’s signature could be found were horribly damning.

“...are you there? Wreath? What’s wrong?”

Michael snapped to alertness. “I was daydreaming. My apologies,” he said, straightening out. “What did you say?”

“I said that I’m going to ask for the interrogation transcripts of the Coast Guard officers they have in the jail. I’ve already been to the Witness House, and I’m in touch with a few of those not sacked by Thirteen.” Her voice betrayed none of the franticness she must have been feeling. “I’ve found a few witnesses who could be useful to you. I gave Dr. Teck the list, she was supposed to give it to you this evening.”

“Thank you very much.” Thanks to Teck, Michael already had no shortage of good witnesses lined up, and had lent a few more to Alli, and even some of the others. Best’s successor didn’t have quite as many hard-to-explain signatures, but he had been known for his highly political statements - odd, given that he was from Two and, in interrogations, had admitted that he had never approved of the Games. 

“No, thank _you_. Have a good day!”

“You, too.” Michael put away his phone, letting out a deep breath. 

“The child soldiers again?” Fisher asked.

Michael nodded. “I’ll need to get more witnesses from the higher ranks of the Peacekeepers to testify about the success of the ideological training. The prosecution will dangle defectors in our faces, but until the Rebellion went open, they were a drop in the bucket. In a totalitarian regime, it is patently absurd to expect people to learn to think independently.” Njoki would be unhappy with the extra work, but at least Brack had been a deputy, and thus had a ready-made excuse for everything.

“Especially as the Coast Guard did not mingle with District people,” Fisher said appreciatively. “They were never in touch with anyone who could disabuse them of their notions.” He put his hands in the pockets of his light jacket, laptop and folder jammed between elbow and side. “Blues is going the opposite route. We’re arguing that the District labourers were treated well by her, and that the excesses were the fault of others.”

“Peacekeepers? NCIA? Political functionaries?”

Wincing, Fisher nodded. “All the mistreatment was the result of Peacekeeper brutality. Though I think Dr. Gupta would appreciate it if I took more shots at his client.” Gupta had been an actual convicted Rebel, and while he was impeccably professional, Michael doubted he was very happy to be defending Talvian. 

“Is Blues still planning on taking responsibility?”

Fisher shrugged. “I told her it was tantamount to putting the noose on her own neck, but I think she wants to gamble that the judges will seek out signs of remorse. I don’t see why. All she needs to do is insist that all she did was build the Arenas and that her responsibility did not extend beyond the construction itself. Witnesses I can deal with, and there are no photographs of her and forced labourers at work. Meersten actually found a few of her giving them food.”

“Are there actually no photographs or will the prosecution reveal them at the most dramatic moment?” Michael tried for a joke. Meersten had been Snow’s personal photographer and media expert and now worked cataloguing photo and video evidence. He could usually be seen in his office peddling funny photos to MP’s.

“The prosecution spent weeks begging Meersten to dig something up, and he found nothing. The only other thing I can think of is that one of the Peacekeepers has photos, but hasn’t handed them over yet. Blues says she was unaware of the executions.”

Of course, their clients were hardly the most truthful of people. Michael was about to reply, but the sound of rapid footsteps made him turn around. It was Shaw, an expert on corporate law and the head of Chaterhan’s defense team. The industrialist’s coffers kept over thirty attorneys on payroll, but Michael had often heard the joke that all of the forces of world capitalism wouldn’t be able to save him once the testimony of the workers was read into evidence. “I see you pushed all the work on yet another assistant,” Fisher said, not unkindly.

Shaw took the gibe in stride. “As the _Daily Worker_ so wisely says, my client has a better legal team than all the others combined thanks to the efforts of world capitalism to not permit this attack on the nation’s chief exploiter of workers. I always have another assistant.”

Fisher laughed, though Michael wasn’t sure what was so funny. “As the lawyer of his attack dog, I formally request some assistance.”

“No, that’s Aichele.” Rumour had it that Krechet’s lawyer, a public defender, had burst into tears upon being assigned her client.

“I’m sure they said the same thing about Blues,” Fisher said, shrugging dismissively. “Though it’s true that a surprising amount of businesspeople and industrialists the world over are upset at his inclusion in the indictment.”

“Of course they are,” Shaw said. “It’s a virtually unprecedented case.”

“And the precedent they’re going to lean on most heavily is flawed,” Michael added. “Not to mention that there’s a difference between accusing someone of bad business practices and mistreatment and accusing them of conspiring to commit the Hunger Games. In the former, they have a very strong case. In the latter, it should never have been written in the indictment.”

“We’ll see about the strength of the case,” Shaw said with a smile. “Aren’t we approaching ours similarly?”

Nearly all of them were approaching their cases similarly, except for that of Krechet, who was planning to pretend to be a brainless attack dog to execute whom would have been akin to punishing the weapon instead of the criminal, and Brack, Pollman, Toplak, and Slice, who were all going to be turned into extraneous deputies with no real power. The rest were going to push everything onto the dead, the missing, and ‘certain fanatical elements’; a handful were willing to blame Snow.

They walked past a street artist sitting on a pile of bricks and drawing the rubble around them. Seized by a sudden idea, Michael walked towards them. “Do you do portraits?” he asked.

The artist sized him up in a calculating way. Clearly realizing that people did not simply go around in Peacekeeper dress uniforms in this day and age, they nodded and demanded a huge price. Michael agreed readily and handed over the money, as the artist was wearing trousers with hems that showed clear signs of having been patched over and over and he had plenty to spare. As Shaw and Fisher looked on, the artist drew Michael, who tried not to feel too self-conscious. 

“Here you go,” they eventually said. Michael took the pencil drawing from them and was shocked to see an accurate likeness of him. It was nowhere near photographic, of course, but it was highly flattering. 

The other two lawyers scurried over. “That’s a nice portrait,” Shaw said.

“That it is,” Michael said. “I’ll send it to my parents.” In the corner of the drawing were the tiny initials EIW, and Michael wondered absently what they stood for for a few seconds before snapping out of it. “Let’s go?” he suggested. They nodded, and the three lawyers kept on walking past the piles of rubble.

* * *

“I’m sorry, the _what_?” Michael asked, trying to read upside-down the photocopies Pinto was holding. Oldsmith’s lawyer looked to be despairing.

“The ‘zal dir bie’,” he replied, as if it was something that everyone knew. “One of Snow’s residences.”

“Snow’s residences?” Michael had no idea what was going on. “Is it corruption? Bad working conditions?”

Pinto nodded. “Both. The trickiest thing to deal with will be the lack of protective equipment, but the prosecutor will focus on the fact that the workers were completely illiterate. I was just talking to Dr. Njoki about that. Brack was the deputy, but there’s a limit to how far we can stretch it.” Njoki was defending the former Deputy Minister of Education, and a chill ran down Michael’s spine as he realized the meaning of the cryptic phrase.

“The workers were told to put up the address, or something else of the sort, but they couldn’t even tell the letters apart,” he realized. “But in the Capitol, everyone is literate.” 

“Exactly. And no records exist, except the original complaint that quotes an overseer on the fact that these workers indeed did not know the alphabet. I have no idea what’s going on here.”

“The prosecution will say that the government, and specifically Oldsmith, forced kidnapped District people to build Snow’s residences,” Michael guessed. “Has anyone come forward yet?”

Pinto shook his head. “We send out the call. Nothing, so far.” He paused, smiling suddenly. “One of the clerks told me some jokes about Talvian. You want to hear?”

“Of course,” Michael agreed out of politeness. He could imagine what the jokes would be. Talvian only reached a metre fifty on tiptoe.

“When Talvian was first appointed, people immediately started making jokes about her height. There was one about the NCIA handing out miniature portraits depicting her life-sized. Another said that she had once fallen off a ladder trying to smell a flower.”

That was quite funny, but Michael was in no mood to laugh. “Are they going to be presented as evidence?” he asked. “Since people were shot for jokes during the purge that happened after she came to power.” While any evidence with probative value would be allowed, as this would be a trial by judges, jokes would definitely cross the line.

“No, but I thought you’d find them funny,” Pinto scratched his head. “Sorry. I won’t distract you with silly nonsense. What were we just talking about?”

* * *

In his billet, Michael shared his room with Alli. They had asked to share a room so that they could work even when they were theoretically supposed to be resting.

“The prosecution is going to have a field day with this,” Alli said glumly, handing his laptop to Michael, who was taking off his shoes. Michael put it down and finished undressing. The other man was already lying under the covers, though he was drinking coffee from a large mug.

“Let me get out of this uniform first.” Michael pulled on a thin tracksuit he had bought at a market shortly after arriving and sat down on Alli’s bed. He reached over, picked up the computer, and began to read. After just a few words, he knew this would be trouble.

The document he was reading was a scan of an original. It was the minutes of a top-secret military conference. During the conference, several military leaders had worked out with Snow their plan - to target civilian institutions such as hospitals in order to destroy morale, and to shoot suspected Rebel leaders without trial. And one of them had been Verdant, who was recorded as having supported the plan enthusiastically and offered to guard the border with even more fanaticism.

“I wouldn’t want to be Rankin and Madaichik,” Alli said, reading along. “And Tuss. At least Verdant never bombed a hospital.”

“This is going to be Count One and Count Five at once,” Michael realized. To the prosecution, this would be a clear sign of the conspiracy, and since this had happened before any hostilities had actually begun, they’d somehow twist this to their notion of an aggressive war.

“And Three, and maybe even Four.” Alli tapped his fingers on his blanket. “This is like the meeting where they planned the firebombing of Twelve, except not as bad. By the way, have you read that book about genocide Baer got from the historians?” Michael nodded, still reading carefully. Sometimes, even he was shocked by the degree of callousness Snow had sunk to. “Do you agree that it applies to Twelve?”

“Yes,” Michael replied. “The deliberate and targeted destruction of a defined group of people. The entirety of Twelve was a small town, and it all went up in flames, with ten percent surviving. That’s exactly what the term was created to describe.” Dr. Blueroot had tried to cheer him up by going on a monologue about a genocide where, in some places, none of the targeted population had survived. The historian had merely succeeded in horrifying Michael.

* * *

Outside the Justice Building, trial staff scurried to and fro, an old man sold soup from a pot, small children begged, and one of the archivists was peddling photographs to a queue of soldiers. Chime had worked in the Presidential Archives and was now putting her expertise to good use - Michael had often asked her for some document or other - but she also had nowhere to live now.

“Alright, everyone, could you please step aside for a minute?” Baer asked. “We’re taking a group photo.”

Michael doubted his parents would want to hang up on their wall a photograph of him and the other lawyers among piles of rubble, homeless children, and a very large pot of soup. The twenty-four “main” lawyers got into three uneven rows as Chime sighed and moved over her wares and a small flock of children, sensing the opportunity, approached them begging for food and money.

A child of an uncertain age - they could have been anything between eight and twelve - tugged on Michael’s sleeve. “Uncle, got any change?” they asked in an accent that had some traces of the upper class. 

“Sure,” Michael said, taking a few coins out of his pocket. He wondered what had happened to the child’s family.

“Is everyone ready?” Baer asked, handing her expensive smartphone to the old man and joining the front row. To his own surprise - he was of average height - Michael was in the back row. 

The old man held up the phone. “Look at the camera!” he said, and tapped the screen a few times. “Very nice.”

The cluster of lawyers broke apart, everyone hurrying every which way. Michael checked his phone, and found a text message from Teck. She was back from Thirteen and waiting for him at Uncle Ray’s with four of Shaw’s assistants. They must have been discussing the issue of work conditions at the Coast Guard’s shipyards. Michael hurried off to the cafe, looking forward to having a nice cheese bagel. While the sweets were overwhelming, a cheese bagel went perfectly with a double-double.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For those who are curious - here is why the historians are so surprised by Michael. The job description and the uniform remind them of Otto Kranzbuehler (‘kranz’ means ‘wreath’), a defense lawyer at the Nuremberg Trial of the Major War Criminals. As Michael points out, the two men look nothing alike, except for the amount of stripes on their sleeves.
> 
> The book Dr. Lee refers to is Arnold Brackman’s _The Other Nuremberg_ , which is indeed excellent. If any of you want to read about the Tokyo Trial, I recommend it as an introduction (and the Netflix miniseries is good, too). 
> 
> There are a lot of other references - Fritzsche, Ankara, 1474, and so on and so forth. If you’re interested in any of them, I can explain, but they are simply meant to demonstrate how desperate the prosecution is to figure out a framework for what they’re doing, as well as function as Easter eggs for those of you interested in war crimes trials.
> 
> If any of you got the ‘zal dir bie’ reference, please comment. For the other 100% of you - a while back, Belarusians were amused to discover the dictator’s new residence adorned with that cryptic phrase, though in Cyrillic script, of course. Most likely, it was put up by guest workers who didn’t know the language. I thought it was at the perfect level of absurdity for pre-Rebellion Panem.
> 
> Here is a drawing of Michael done by the amazing u/espionage_is_whatido for me: https://imgur.com/7knRbvt. It also exists in-universe as the portrait Michael gets from the street artist.


	3. Lawyer II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same disclaimer as before - I am not a lawyer and have never studied law, do not take anything I write here as fact.

Michael felt all eyes on him as the defense filed in and sat down. Out of all of the defense lawyers, he was the only one in uniform, and he could see cameras aimed at him. He pretended to check his phone. “And so it begins,” Shaw whispered, her eyes roving around the courtroom.

“That it does.” The twenty-four “main” lawyers, as well as various assistants, sat around two large tables arranged lengthwise in front of the dock, which was empty for now. Michael was close to where Best would be sitting. Teck was absent for now, still busy with research, but would join him when the actual presentation of the cases began. On the other side of the defense was the prosecution, four smaller tables organized in a row with the short edges facing the defense. There was nothing to indicate what District they were from, other than the shoulder patches of the military people, but Michael knew that none of them were from Twelve.

Beyond that were various clerks and stenographers, and then came the judges’ bench. On the left sat journalists, and on the right - the audience. The small room was completely packed. 

When the door to the dock opened, everyone’s attention was riveted to it, and Michael could feel the audience’s disappointment at seeing ordinary-looking people file out, one by one. Some were dressed in decent-looking but obviously cheap suits, others were decked out in their best. In his well-tailored black suit, Chaterhan looked ready for a board meeting. Best looked like an elderly worker attending a funeral. The other Peacekeepers wore their old uniforms with insignia and medals removed, and Michael winced at the small holes in the fabric.

“Good morning,” Best said. Michael leaned over to shake his hand.

“Good morning to you, too,” he replied. 

“They don’t look too angry.” Best adjusted his glasses, observing the audience. 

Michael nodded. “It certainly seems that way.” Or were they too shocked to see that, without their body modifications and expensive clothes, the old elite was just a group of ordinary middle-aged and elderly people?

Best started to talk with Verdant about the temperature in their cells. Michael settled back, watching the defendants take their places. Verdant looked quite healthy, even though his leg had still not healed properly.

The entire process filled Michael with a sense of surreality, and he felt acutely the magnitude of his role. He sat up a little bit straighter, feeling a little bit proud of himself. He was here to defend his client and the honour of the Coast Guard, he was a Peacekeeper and a lawyer, and he was not ashamed to be seen.

“All rise!” the marshal called out as a door opened and the judges filed in. Michael rose, watching them. He had seen a few before, but by no means all. There were thirteen of them, one from each District. Michael knew that they would vary greatly in skill - the “judge” from Twelve had been a mere clerk with little legal training before her arrival to Thirteen. 

The judges took their seats, and so did the rest of them. The judge from Thirteen, Raymond Sanchez, sat at the very end of the long table, next to the hapless Rose Meadowcreek from Twelve. Judge Meadowcreek looked around the courtroom as if unable to believe that she was truly there.

As Judge Sanchez began to speak, Michael listened with one ear, running their plan through his mind over and over, just in case. First, the indictment would be read. Then, Baer would make a statement for the entire defense about the court’s lack of legitimacy. That would be shot down, and the defendants would plead not guilty. After that, the presentation of the cases would begin. 

Since he had read and re-read the indictment many times, Michael observed the people who were in the courtroom. Just minutes later, they all appeared to be in a bored stupor. Shaw was playing a game on her phone, using the buttons to control a little snake that went around picking up red dots and growing in size. Michael sipped his coffee as he watched her. She was much better at the game than him.

Only the next day did what the audience was there to see happen. One by one, the defendants were told to stand up and plead guilty or not guilty.

When called on to give his plea, Dovek calmly said, “Not guilty, in the sense of the indictment,” and sat down. Michael wondered in what sense, then, he was guilty. Oldsmith used the same phrasing, and Michael imagined Dr. Lee and Dr. Nurbeko laughing about it together. The cryptic phrase had been given new life.

Best, fortunately, simply said “Not guilty” in a firm but quiet voice and sat down.

* * *

The prosecution’s opening statement turned out to be the finest piece of legal oratory Michael had heard in his life. Even as he picked apart flawed arguments and sections that were all fluff and no substance, he had to admit that it was a very effective speech. 

“...it is true what some have already said,” Mary Irons said in a calm, collected voice. “We, the victors, are gathered here to sit in judgement of the vanquished. By doing so, however, we give them a chance to defend themselves in a court of law.” She then continued in a similar vein, saying that the world’s eyes were on the Capitol, and in the end, the judgement would have to stand before the highest of all appeal courts - the bar of history.

Irons had written the opening statement herself. According to Teck, she had wanted to highlight the unprecedented nature of some of the crimes, while also emphasizing the allegedly iron-clad precedents for the other ones. Irons had asked the historians to give her three key sentences or concepts from older cases to include, and so far, Michael hadn’t been able to catch any of them. Either they hadn’t been brought up yet or they had been seamlessly integrated into the rest of the speech.

The speech segued into the most headache-inducing count, that of a common plan or conspiracy. Irons conjured up an image of the twenty-four defendants assuming the mantle of leadership in the criminal government, akin to the youngest members of a gang who become its leaders in their turn. It was impossible to imagine Cotillion conspiring with Blues and Lee to wage aggressive war or the Peacekeepers conspiring to implement the Hunger Games, and indeed the mental image of Slice conspiring with anyone to do anything was utterly absurd, but Michael could tell that Irons’ words would be enough to convince many in the courtroom.

* * *

As soon as the presentation of evidence began, the audience began to drift away. Even Michael found it difficult to follow and comprehend the complicated back-and-forth, and he had spent months cramming to make sure he was ready. The prosecution introduced transcripts of various meetings and the occasional military order, arguing that they were proof of a conspiracy to carry out various actions deemed criminal, from high quotas to the taking of hostages.

Not all of it was as easy to laugh away as Michael had hoped. The prosecution had eschewed the drama of a witness-based trial in favour of flooding the Tribunal with documents, and so far, the strategy was working, even if everyone found it dreadfully dull. There was nothing that could be done about the minutes of a conference where Snow had directly stated that, in the case of wide-scale uprisings, Twelve would be firebombed to the ground with no warning. When the prosecutor called the attack a genocide, Michael picked apart the meaning of the word for some reason, even though he had been aware for months that it was coming. _Genos_ , meaning ‘a people’. _-cide_ from _caedo_ , which meant killing. The killing of an entire people. Twelve had been rather small for an entire people, but no matter how hard Michael tried, there was no getting around the fact that the military he had served in had committed a genocide.

Six of the defendants had been present there. Oldsmith, Lux, Blatt, Thread, Coll, and Pollman. Michael was glad he didn’t have to deal with that damning memorandum, to stand there at the lectern, explain that a lack of disagreement did not mean agreement, and argue the difference between an accomplice and a conspirator as the remnants of Twelve looked on. Judge Meadowcreek looked even more withdrawn than usual and stared at the table most of the time. Michael had often worried about whether she would be impartial, but then again, there were no impartial judges in all of Panem, or maybe even the world.

Michael wondered how he could have served such a regime. How could he have been unaware that this is what they had been used for? He had asked the historians for ideas one evening after a long day spent in the Coast Guard archives, and their response had been enough to give him sleepless nights.

_Either you didn’t know, which means you were an idiot. Or you knew and did nothing, which makes you a coward. Or you knew and participated, which makes you a criminal._

He tried to think of a fourth answer, but there was nothing. It galled Michael to consider himself a coward, but he couldn’t deny that he had disapproved of the methods while still remaining in the Coast Guard.

Shaw was playing the snake game on her phone. Michael had the same game on his, as well as one where he controlled a ball jumping over obstacles and one - where he had to avoid being hit with lasers. He liked all of the games, but playing on one’s phone in court was highly unprofessional, and he didn’t want to disgrace his uniform by making himself into a laughingstock.

* * *

“What do you think so far?” Dr. Nurbeko asked as the two of them stood in the queue at the courthouse coffee shop. There had been no time for him to go to Uncle Ray’s, so Michael now stood in the queue and waited as Capitolians stood outside and pressed their faces against the windows.

“Satisfactory,” Michael replied. “I am very impressed with the Chair.” When the defense objected, Judge Sanchez took them seriously, much to their surprise. Always calm, always ready to resolve without bias yet another argument about procedure, he was the judge Michael had never been, much to his shame. Sanchez had defected from the Capitol shortly after being fired for acquitting several rebels, an act Michael had never even considered as an option.

Dr. Nurbeko hummed incoherently. Michael wondered if they had snuck up to him deliberately. The historians were an odd trio. “I wonder why Coin didn’t tap him for Snow’s trial,” they said, craning their neck to see how long the queue was.

“I would think the answer to this is obvious.” Snow had been tried by a judge whose main qualification had been the horrors she had endured for her political beliefs. The poor judge was now back to practice in family law, and happier than she had ever been.

“You’re right.” The historian glanced at their watch. “Do you want to hear something interesting? It was published in the newspapers this morning.” Reluctantly, Michael nodded. “‘The former high station of these defendants, the notoriety of their acts, and the aptness of their conduct to provoke retaliation make it hard to distinguish between the demand for a just and measured retribution and the unthinking cry for vengeance which arises from the anguish of war.’”

Michael recognized the words instantly. “Was it meant critically?” he asked. Unhappily, the historian nodded. “Quoted out of context. How typical.” It was strange to be defending the trial all of a sudden, but the average Capitolian had no understanding of what was going on and lashed out blindly against anything coming from the new government. They did not understand nuance. “Did they read on to the part about the poisoned chalices?”

“Of course not,” Dr. Nurbeko said with a laugh. “And I don’t think they’ve been to the proceedings, either.” There was a massive interest in the trial from around the world, but the majority of seats were reserved for people from the Capitol, for re-education purposes. For now, it was unlikely to work, as the prosecution was describing the inner workings of the Ministry of Education, but soon enough, Michael knew a day would come when nobody would leave the courtroom unaffected.

* * *

The lawyers had all braced themselves for atrocity films, but the sight of starving children in Nine was still enough to make Michael feel sick. He watched with half-closed eyes as, on the screen, two Peacekeepers tried to save two skeletal children.

The footage was old - it was from the famine of 31-32. Michael had been a baby back then. Best, however, had already been an officer at that point, and as one the Peacekeepers in the video faced the camera and called out the government, Michael began to wonder. How could this have been covered up? An entire District struck by famine, and he had never found out about it until now?

A witness was called once the movie ended. A man took the stand and introduced himself as one of the children from the footage. The prosecutor, a very short man from Nine who couldn’t have been past his mid-twenties, began to walk him through his life story.

Something inside Michael snapped. There had been plenty of survivors and even more witnesses, with the youngest being in their late forties now. Which meant that anyone who had served in Nine could have effortlessly found out, and with how often Peacekeepers had been transferred around, that meant that he should have known. But he hadn’t. Nobody had ever breathed a word about a famine in Nine.

“Didn’t anyone know anything about any of this?” Michael demanded of Best in a whisper.

His client shrugged, suddenly looking his age. “I was patrolling the Lakes at the time! How could I have known?” he hissed back.

The historians were right, Michael realized. He slumped over the table, head on his elbow, and listened to the testimony. All of them were a bunch of idiots. There was no getting around that fact.

* * *

“And which of the defendants participated with you and your colleagues in this conspiracy to keep the Hunger Games going?” the prosecutor asked the witness, a former assistant Gamemaker.

Immediately, Tornabene spoke up. “That is a loaded question,” she said. “It shouldn’t be allowed.”

Judge Sanchez agreed. “That question is one the Tribunal is here to answer,” he said. “It is inadmissible.” To everyone, from the journalists to the defendants, the presiding judge was the epitome of judicial fairness. Michael could respect his decisions even when he disagreed with him, and Teck went further, claiming that his actions in the courtroom were proof that the trial was fair.

“May I rephrase it, then?” the prosecutor asked. They were a thickset person from Four.

“You may.”

The prosecutor turned back to Brisk, who had been one of the most influential assistant Gamemakers. She was currently on trial in the Justice Building as well. “Of the defendants, who have you seen at planning conferences?” they asked.

“I personally or others? Some only participated in one-on-one sessions with the Head Gamemaker.”

A lengthy argument ensued over whether anecdotal evidence that two people had met had any relevance if both participants were either dead or refused to admit they were there in the first place. 

“Surely you do not think the Head Gamemaker had a habit of inviting over high-ranking officials to congratulate them on the birth of their child?” one of the prosecutors asked, sarcastically paraphrasing a few of the defense lawyers.

Baer spoke up. “While that is indeed an absurd idea, we cannot have witnesses testifying that such meetings took place based on hearsay. How is this any different from former secret-prison inmates mistakenly claiming that it was one official who inspected the prison, and not another?”

After several hours, it was decided that Brisk could only testify about events she had participated in, witnessed, or heard about from a reliable source.

“Witness, which of these defendants participated in planning conferences where you were present?” the same prosecutor asked. The audience looked terminally bored.

“The following I have seen personally at conferences where various aspects of the Hunger Games were planned - Dovek, Oldsmith, Lux, Cotillion, Talvian, Chaterhan, Dijksterhuis, Toplak, and Kirji.”

Dovek whispered something to Oldsmith, who chuckled and whispered back. Lux tensed and took notes angrily. Cotillion continued to stare into space. Talvian looked to be asleep. Chaterhan appeared to be offended by Brisk’s words. Dijksterhuis was clearly happy that her name had finally been pronounced correctly. Toplak put a hand on her face. Kirji didn’t look up from what was most likely a newspaper. Everyone else looked relieved, except Slice, who looked around the dock as if confused by the company she had found herself in.

Michael glanced at Fisher, who was slumped over as always. The drab man must have been celebrating inwardly. Shaw took that moment to point out that no documents existed proving these allegations against her client. 

“I saw him myself,” Brisk repeated. “Regularly, he appeared at meetings with select groups of Gamemakers and assistants to discuss the Steelworks’ involvement. No minutes were kept, as talk was often of bribes. Whether it was secretly recorded, I do not know.”

The recording was promptly produced, much to the irritation of Chaterhan. Then, they switched to Blues, who suddenly awoke from her stupor as soon as her name was mentioned.

“I never saw her,” Brisk said with a shrug. “I know for a fact she met the Head, that much is obvious, but I never saw her until today.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s only logical to assume.”

“Witness, it may be logical, but we need proof.”

The proof was found, but only of the fact that the meetings took place, and the prosecutor eventually switched to the cooperation between Training Centre personnel and the Gamemakers. Teck took notes half-heartedly as Michael studied the audience. While the place was always packed in the mornings, by now, it was mostly empty. Even the details of the inner workings of the Hunger Games could not hold anyone’s attention when they were described in dry legalistic words.

* * *

Since the case being presented at the moment had nothing to do with him, Michael let Teck handle it for a few hours and went to watch the Peacekeepers’ Trial. The trials all influenced each other, and it was hard to keep track of the decisions being made every day. The Peacekeepers’ Trial featured a cross-section of Peacekeepers of various ranks, picked almost at random from a list of those infamous for their brutality in multiple Districts.

On the witness stand, a junior officer by the name of Kirst was testifying in her own defense. Michael winced once he realized that she was using the ‘superior orders’ defense. While it had some legitimacy, it also had its limits. 

“Would you have shot your parents, then, if it was ordered?” the prosecutor asked.

Kirst’s face crumpled. She said nothing, only shrugging. 

“Answer the question,” the prosecutor gently but firmly demanded. Her lawyer looked ready to tear their hair out. Technically speaking, that was a valid line of questioning. If orders were orders, there were no exceptions.

“Uh-”

“Answer me. If Snow had ordered you to shoot your parents, would you have done it?”

Staring at the ground, Kirst said nothing. Nobody said a word. Michael could see the dilemma she was in - to say ‘no’ would discredit a large segment of her defense, but to say ‘yes’ would destroy her parents, who were in the courtroom. A better defense would have been to insist that she had never executed someone wrongly, or to plead military necessity. That would have removed the issue of double standards, though a possible counter-argument would have been to ask if she would have shot her parents if they had committed sabotage. But to that, she could answer that, due to her attachments to them, she would have requested to not take part in that specific execution. But then-

Michael realized he was daydreaming and refocused on the back-and-forth.

“Defendant Kirst, please answer the question. Would you have obeyed an order to shoot your own parents?”

Almost imperceptibly, Kirst nodded. She then burst into tears as nobody made a single sound.

“The prosecution has no more questions.”

Kirst was removed from the courtroom, and the next defendant’s case was on. He was an older NCO by the name of Holder, and he was rumoured to be insane even though the psychiatrists could find nothing but a mild case of ASD. To Michael, he appeared perfectly sane, even if his dogged sticking to the superior orders defense looked patently absurd after how Kirst had been dealt with.

When the prosecution began the cross-examination, things immediately took a turn for the surreal.

“Do you recall ever shooting a child?” the prosecutor began.

“Yes,” Holder said. “Many times.”

Michael blinked, taken aback at the frankness.

“When did this happen?” The prosecutor picked up a document and looked at it as Holder rattled off a series of incidents. “Stop. During this particular incident, do you recall what the sergeant said?”

Holder nodded. “He asked me if I would shoot a child, so I did.” No emotion. Not even a quaver of his voice. The audience stared at him.

“Why did you shoot the child?”

“I took the instruction to be an order.”

“Does the name ‘Martin Smith’ mean anything to you?” The prosecutor’s words were calm.

“Yes. He was executed by me for the theft of a pair of night-vision goggles.” Michael wondered how Holder remembered that. He himself did not remember the names of any of the people he had sentenced.

“Were you aware that Martin had a moderate intellectual disability and most likely did not comprehend that he was breaking a law?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, why did you execute him?”

“I was ordered to execute him, so I did.”

The prosecutor sighed. “If your lieutenant had ordered you to shoot your sergeant, would you have done it?”

“Yes.” Michael leaned back, trying to control his shock.

“Why?”

“Because that means that they’re a Rebel.” How could a living human being be so single-minded? Michael searched Holder’s face for a sign of the wrongness that lived within him, and found nothing. He had never heard of people with ASD acting so strangely, and wondered what else was wrong with him.

The prosecutor sighed. “Had you been ordered to shoot your parents, would you have done it?”

Without even batting an eye, Holder replied in the affirmative. 

“But why?” the prosecutor asked as the audience gasped.

“Because I’m a Peacekeeper,” Holder said, looking confused. “I do what I’m told.”

“But don’t you realize that’s wrong?” the prosecutor begged.

Holder nodded. “What I think doesn’t matter. I’m a good Peacekeeper. I follow orders.”

Fighting his tears, the prosecutor continued the cross-examination. “But you’re not an automaton! You’re a human being. You’re allowed to think and make choices.” He clutched his papers so tightly, Michael feared he’d tear them. “Didn’t what you did upset you?”

“But they always said what I think doesn’t matter!” Holder said, sounding upset now. “They always praised me, said I was a good Peacekeeper. I’m not allowed to be upset. Is a gun allowed to be upset because it’s used for a criminal purpose?”

The prosecutor looked horrified. “Defendant Holder,” he said softly, wiping at his face, “you are not a gun. You are a human being. Your thoughts and feelings are valid. You are right to be upset that you were manipulated into committing horrible crimes.” Michael nearly gasped out loud when he caught the word choice. He looked at Holder’s lawyer, who was indeed looking rather calm for someone listening to the testimony. Holder just looked confused. He looked around the courtroom, as if seeking reassurance. “Defendant Holder, please look at me.” Blank eyes met teary ones. “You are not a thing to be used. Never say such a thing again. Please. You are a person.”

On that note, the defense lawyer suggested a psychiatric examination of Holder. The idea was roundly supported by everyone, even though previous examinations had already shown that he had a mild case of ASD and nothing else. A part of Michael wished he could pull off something similar, and he envied anyone who could make a prosecutor fall to pieces like that.

That afternoon, Michael met with Holder’s lawyer, Dr. Black, to pick her brain. “I’ve heard ten-year-olds give less terrifying testimony,” he said as they waited for documents in the Defense Centre. “The prosecutor really cracked, didn’t he?”

Dr. Black nodded. “I didn’t expect that,” she admitted. “I told him to be truthful, but I didn’t think a prosecutor could crack like that. Especially one from Eleven. Maybe he was having a bad day.”

“Do you think he’s got a chance?” That phrasing had been highly suggestive, but it remained to be seen what the judges would think.

“Of course,” she said with a smile. “My client is clearly neurodivergent and possibly mentally ill on top of that. No sane judge would send him to the gallows, and I pity anyone who has to sit in prison with him.” She tapped her foot, looking pensive. “Though prison is likely. I doubt they’ll suddenly find him unfit to stand trial after finding him fit three times already.”

Michael smiled back. “And that’s not even the craziest testimony.” Several completely neurotypical and mentally healthy Peacekeepers had insisted that they had done nothing wrong and that all of the executions had been legal.

“The definition of normality really changes in the Peacekeepers’ Trial,” Dr. Black said. “Nowhere else do you have defendants arguing with a straight face that one hundred people were shot, not two hundred.”

“At least it’s not ninety thousand,” Michael said, trying for a joke.

Dr. Black chuckled. “Or one million. Did the historians get to you, too?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve gotten to half the world at this point.” She leaned against the wall. “Were you there the entire day?”

“No, I only caught the tail end of Kirst’s testimony and Holder’s case. At our trial, they’re dealing with propaganda,” Michael explained, “so I let my assistant handle it.” He had no desire to listen to excerpts from Lark’s odious talk-show and it was obvious to all that the case against Slice could be accurately summarized with ‘Who in the world is Irma Slice?’ much to Baer’s satisfaction.

Black nodded. “You missed out, then. Kirst called a witness who turned out to also be on the witness list of another defendant. To top it off, the witness is currently on trial in Eleven and had to be specially brought in to testify.”

“The witness testified in their own favour.” Michael could see where this was going.

“Of course. The witness blamed the two defendants, they claimed the witness was lying, and the amount of perjury was record-breaking even by Lodgepole standards.” 

That wasn’t the biggest problem the Peacekeepers’ Trial had to deal with. Every single one of the defendants was trying to cite the destructiveness of the Dark Days as a reason for their brutality in putting down perceived rebellion. That excuse was as off-limits as the _tu quoque_ , and was still used just as often nevertheless. Michael wasn’t planning on using it, but for a few of the more desperate - Low, Pinto, Tuss - everything was worth trying.

“It could be worse,” Michael said with a shrug. “Did you follow what happened when the prosecution started introducing evidence about the exploitation of the Victors?”

Black nodded. “How could I not? It was the biggest clusterfuck so far.” She sat down on a bench, and Michael took a seat next to her after some consideration. The clerk still wasn’t back, so he had a few minutes of free time to catch up. 

“I did not expect that,” Michael admitted. After watching Odair’s propo, he had assumed that there would be incontrovertible proof of his allegations, even if most of the so-called secrets he had revealed would either be proven wrong or be impossible to prove. However, there was not a single document to be found on the matter, and Michael suspected that the proof had gone with Snow to the grave. Coin’s haste to have him executed had turned out to be the IDC’s undoing. “Good thing I didn’t have to go up there and do the cross-examinations myself. It was an unpleasant business.”

It had started out so well. Victors previously presumed dead had emerged, ready to testify about how their victories had been mutilated. Michael had thought they would be able to finally get justice for what had been done to them. And then it had all fallen apart under a hail of sharp questions from the defense. When Victors from Two had been on the stand, he had struggled to remain professional, and Teck had had to leave the courtroom.

“Understatement of the century,” Black muttered. “My old boss had been involved in those sorts of things, so to have Zhu get up there and tear those unfortunates to shreds was unpleasant to say the least.” The prosecution had asked the Victors to recall events from as much as thirty years ago and name names they had never known due to being under the influence of narcotic substances at the time. Low had had a field day tearing testimony apart, with Baer giving the occasional bit of advice and Zhu and Pinto hovering around like coffee-chugging vultures.

Michael wondered why he had been so upset by the collapse of that case. Any sort of misstep on the prosecution’s part could only be good for him, and just because something could not be proven in a court of law did not mean that it would be judged likewise before the bar of history. “Well,” he said. “That’s all done with, and we’re on firmer ground now.”

“Not much consolation, to think that we managed to come up with a completely unprecedented crime,” Black muttered. She took out a folder from her bag and began to look through some notes. The first point on the page was a brief description of how the term ‘crimes against humanity’ had been first coined in 1915. Back then, people had been just as stunned by atrocities as now. Shouldn’t humanity have gotten used to mass murder by this point?

* * *

Despite all of the preparations done by Michael and Alli, the presentation of the Coast Guard case was considered by the media to be a death knell for the two admirals. No matter how scrupulous Teck’s research into precedents, no matter how well Michael planned the cross-examinations, the documents could not be argued with. They did their best, but there was no way to claim that the sentencing of children to death for attempted defection was justified, and the signatures could not be removed from the orders. It was likewise hard to convincingly claim Best’s ignorance of the illegality of certain actions when presented with defectors who had drawn their own conclusions, but that, at least, was doable.

Michael looked up from his notes to glance at the clock. Five minutes left, with no end to the testimony in sight. The prosecution was still walking the former petty officer through his decision to defect. While there had been an entire network in the Coast Guard, Evers had been unaware of its existence, and had instead simply set out on a small boat with only a compass and a week’s rations. His story was awe-inspiring, but Michael paid no attention to that, at least not now.

Evers was being held up as proof of how easy it had been to leave, but Michael’s attention was on something else. Evers had mentioned that when he had spoken to his comrades, none had agreed with him. Michael already had a vague outline of the cross-examination, mostly focused on that point. Evers had been the exception, not the rule.

The Chair announced that the Tribunal was adjourned until the next morning, and Michael stood up, stretching. He immediately made a beeline to where Madaichik and Rankin were already whispering to each other. “If he was the only one, how can they say it was common?” Rankin was saying. “It may have been easy, but an untrained person will overlook a gold nugget lying on the ground if it’s covered in dust.”

“Exactly,” Michael said. “And that’s an excellent way to phrase it.”

Alli was still packing his things, looking utterly wrung out. The two of them set off for their offices together, but Alli looked ready to fall asleep. “At this rate, I’ll never get my case done,” he complained.

“It’s already mostly done,” Michael pointed out. Alli shrugged.

They ended up cramming into Michael’s office, where Teck was asleep on a pile of books. Her laptop screen showed the Geneva Conventions. Alli sat down on a fold-out stool that tended to collapse and looked at Michael’s outline. “That could work,” he said. “Start out with asking him to confirm he talked to his buddies about the immorality of some of their actions?” Teck woke up with a start and reached for a binder full of scans of documents.

Michael shook his head. “I think we should go further back and establish that they were open and honest with each other. That way, we can really hammer home that they weren’t just covering their asses, they sincerely did not think that musty conventions written before the Cataclysm could have any relevance.” Njoki would be unhappy with even more work, but at least she could push everything onto her client’s conveniently dead superior. 

“Don’t forget the ideology classes,” Alli said, rubbing at his eyes. “Evers said that nobody really took them seriously, but that doesn’t mean they sincerely thought they were wrong. They were just bored to death by hearing the same things over and over.”

Michael scribbled down a few notes. “Start with the close friendship, have him explain they could talk about anything, and segue into what they thought about the ideology classes?”

“I guess.” Alli took his laptop from his bag and opened it. “The first bit will be from the transcript, then. And what if he backtracks and says that they discussed everything but avoided discussing serious topics?”

“He admitted to bringing up his plan to defect to them, that is not something one did to those they did not trust absolutely.”

“There’s still a difference, though. Not all desertions were politically motivated.”

“But he said that it was politically motivated.” Alli handed him his laptop, and Michael began to go through the day’s transcript, looking for the right quotes and jotting them down.

It took them half an hour just to deal with potential counterarguments to that. “I think we can include desertion rates here,” Michael suggested. “Show them just how rare defections were. Thoughts are nothing without action, after all.”

“Why not lead with that?” Alli asked. “That’s the real issue we’re dealing with here.”

Michael shook his head. “We need to undermine his credibility, not merely make him look like he was too low-ranked to know something.” He wrote down another possible comeback to a counterargument. During his testimony, Evers had mentioned coming up with excuses to not watch the Games, such as going on patrol, and claimed that many others would do the same. Michael needed to bait him into repeating the phrase, and then point out that to volunteer for patrol during the Games, especially repeatedly, was to draw automatic suspicion. From there, Evers could reply in several different ways. Michael began to draw up a chart with all of the possibilities.

“That makes sense,” Alli said. “Let’s go eat some dinner.”

Reluctantly, Michael got up from his chair, stretched, and headed in the direction of the cafeteria. “To go, please,” they said. A few minutes later, they were walking back to their offices, boxes in hand.

“Do you have a spare fork?” Alli asked as he stared at his dinner hungrily. Buckwheat with vegetables, a piece of dark loaf bread with peanut butter, and, more impressively, a large portion of assorted canned fruit. Rank had its privileges. The average worker got most of their vitamins from nutrient bars.

“Here, use my spoon.” Michael ate a forkful of buckwheat, which was still warm. “How often was Evers cited for political unreliability?”

Alli scrolled through the transcript with one hand while eating with the other. “He doesn’t say how often exactly, but he says higher-ups viewed him as politically unreliable. We can use this.” He ate a spoonful of buckwheat. “Compare him to the rest.”

* * *

As the prosecution drew closer to the end, Teck worked even harder than before. As Michael sat in the courtroom, cross-examined witnesses, and objected once in a while, she dug through archives and criss-crossed the country looking for witnesses. 

“Aggression was prosecuted a grand total of two times before,” Teck said not for the first time as she looked up from her computer and reached for a pile of papers. “I don’t see the point in engaging with the evidence, especially since nearly all of it was already covered by Count One. Just say it’s all nonsense and they need to dismiss the count.”

The plan was to do just that, but a plan B was always needed, especially given the low likelihood of success. “You think they’ll dismiss it?” Michael asked sceptically. “In the main trial?”

“No,” Teck admitted. “By the way, I finished writing the outline for the cross-examination of someone directly involved in the firebombing of Twelve, and I’ve got a detailed one for a hovercraft pilot who dropped the bombs.” While they didn’t know in advance who the prosecution would bring in to testify, it was sometimes very easy to guess. What they all feared was the prosecution revealing that someone assumed dead had been alive all along, but they had been spared that for now, aside from a few of the Victors whose testimonies had turned out to be useless.

“Let me see.” Teck passed Michael the laptop. She had three separate windows open, each of them with hundreds of tabs, as well as a documents file called ‘trial stuff’. In it was a folder called ‘cross-exam’. Michael clicked through the warren of folders, going to one called ‘count 5’, inside which was ‘12’, inside which was ‘firebombing’, inside which was a file labelled ‘hovercraft pilot’. 

The cross-examination turned out to be almost ready, but Teck had neglected to account for several possible replies. “I need the paper copy,” he said. While the actual firebombing of Twelve had had nothing to do with Best, Tuss was completely swamped and had asked Teck for help.

Teck handed it to him. “What’s missing?” she asked.

“Almost nothing, but what if they claim it was a legitimate military target?”

“I have it right here-”

“No, that’s them claiming they _thought_ it was a legitimate military target.”

Teck furrowed her eyebrows. “Doesn’t everyone know that’s not true, though? And what does it matter? The prosecution’s going to be arguing about that, not us.”

“Yes, but we need to figure out the possibilities ahead of time. We need to find the most likely place we can later seize on to mention that the order was signed by Snow.” This would make Lux appear as a professional soldier who had been forced into signing a criminal order due to pressure from Snow. It was clumsy, and Lux was showing no signs of being willing to repudiate Snow, but Tuss was already at wits’ end trying to explain away her client’s signatures and the defense hadn’t even started yet.

“I’m sure Tuss can do that on the spot,” Teck pointed out.

She was right. “Very well,” he said, looking for anything else missing in the draft. “I’ll tell her that.”

Michael jotted down some ideas as Teck took back the laptop and began to type. She had already planned out the entirety of Best’s case and worked on it when she had the time. “Do you think you’re ready for dealing with the unrestricted submarine warfare?” she asked, picking up a book from the floor and leafing through it.

“That’s the one thing I’m ready for,” Michael replied with a slight chuckle. “Nurbeko thinks I know more than him about it now.” It had seemed so easy on the surface. Explain that any ship could alert others by radio or secretly be armed, push the working conditions in the docks on Blatt, push the ideological brainwashing on the long-deceased Minister of Education, and say that political speeches could not be proof of actions. Michael and Alli, however, had needed to become experts in the annexation of Czechoslovakia centuries ago, and it still hadn’t been enough to visibly weaken the prosecution’s case.

* * *

The courtroom was as packed as it had been on the first day when the individual cases began. Michael could feel the audience’s disappointment when the defense called its first witness, an official from the Ministry of Internal Affairs who rapidly became a witness for the prosecution under the relentless questioning. Another witness, a high-ranking Peacekeeper, shouted her answers as if she was on a parade ground, irritating everyone. Dovek looked oddly calm, though he whispered to Oldsmith ceaselessly. 

On the stand, the former minister started out projecting the same relaxed air as always. He sat almost lounging in the witness stand, taking up more room than a man of his size should have, and he answered Low’s questions in an almost perfunctory way, making himself out to be a patriot who had tried to rein in some of Snow’s excesses and implying that the horrors of the Dark Days were justification enough for everything. The prosecutor from Two, by comparison, looked ready and collected. Rumour had it that Irons was too scared to face her adversary, but Michael knew that to be false. She was simply self-aware enough to let better cross-examiners deal with the toughest cases.

Michael watched both Jinwe and Dovek as the cross-examination began. From the first words, he saw the noose tighten, and soon enough, Dovek was forced to blatantly lie to get out of a question about his involvement with the firebombing of Twelve. Jinwe produced a document that proved otherwise and moved on. The former minister’s words retained their former agility, but he now looked like the small old man that he was.

Oldsmith was much clumsier. While he had been witty enough in the dock, he tended to reply with outbursts of fury when presented with a difficult question. The prosecution got bogged down temporarily in trying to prove that he had been involved with the exploitation of the Victors, Oldsmith simply stonewalling them and denying that there had been any exploitation, but the prosecutor from Six found a way out by getting Oldsmith to admit that he had been aware of the murder of the family and friends of Johanna Mason and then seguing into his knowledge of various political murders in the outer Districts. Michael wondered what Talvian thought of her own secret recordings being used in such a context. The former head of the NCIA appeared to be asleep. In the end, Pinto successfully managed to make Oldsmith into a secretary with zero power, but Michael doubted that would be enough to save him.

Due to their shared background, Michael watched in trepidation as Bright’s case began. The witnesses she called merely deafened everyone with their shouting, and she defended herself weakly but stubbornly. The prosecution easily showed that while orders may have been orders, she had often acted on her own. With a mental agility Michael had not expected of her, she managed to make the argument all about superior orders, but was quickly forced to admit the frailty of the defense by a young prosecutor from Thirteen waving around a copy of a Peacekeeper’s handbook. When Bright admitted her guilt, Michael could only sigh.

Lux started out strong, but then the prosecution simply flooded the tribunal with various orders he had signed. His voice took on an automaton-like cast as he insisted he could not have disobeyed the head of state and claimed to not have been aware of atrocities that had been the result of the orders he had signed. Within hours, it was clear to all that he was a shoo-in for the gallows, same as the three who had preceded him. This time, Tuss was the one who could only sigh.

The prosecution then switched back to the civilians as Cotillion took the stand. She made herself out to be an apolitical scientist who only had cared about her work and had been unaware of any atrocities, or indeed of anything that had occurred outside her office. Michael wondered if the clumsy speech patterns were part of the act or if she was simply not very good at public speaking. She remained unexpectedly calm for someone whose words were constantly being twisted out of context and patiently rephrased the same sentences over and over, not letting the prosecutor crowd her. The various mutts that appeared on screen and on the witness stand, however, ended up sealing her fate, no matter how convincing she sounded.

Blatt’s case went even better. The prosecution had gone into it thinking it would be open and shut, but Andric’s well-picked witnesses said exactly what they had been called to say and Blatt herself did an excellent job of distancing herself from the atrocities. Blinded by the title of Minister of Armaments, the prosecution had assumed there would be iron-clad proof of her involvement in planning military operations, but Blatt made herself out to be a sort of shopkeeper who had sold things without asking questions. Michael was impressed.

The next case, he could not sit around and watch. Witnesses Teck herself had picked took the stand to testify about various criminal acts they had carried out without Verdant’s approval, and the ones from Thirteen comported themselves superbly as their compatriots at the prosecution tables steamed in fury. Alli handled the direct examination as skillfully as he had handled cross before. When Verdant limped to the stand to testify, he ably demonstrated that overly ideological speeches could not be used as proof of involvement with atrocities. The prosecution, of course, focused on the signatures and transcripts, and Alli had a hard time trying to explain that away, even if the precedents, for once, favoured the defense.

* * *

The first witness Michael called was a retired Coast Guard staff officer. He walked her through the process of implementing orders from the Commander in Chief, and the lack of proper communication from below. The prosecution then turned everything on its head. Michael took note of the Best-specific questions and worked them into the next direct examination, which ended up being much more damning for the prosecution. He hadn’t called anyone to deal with the conspiracy charge, as the most he could do there was mitigate, and the less opportunity the prosecution had to deal with that topic, the better.

Teck had done a fine job. Everything was organized and planned out. If a precedent was brought up, Michael had it in front of him. As soon as a document was mentioned, Teck was opening the document books to the right page. He had thought she was a miracle worker during the prosecution’s presentation of the Coast Guard materials, but now he knew it for sure.

Once the witnesses had all gone, Best was sworn in. As Michael had predicted, the cross-examination ended up being so heavily focused on conspiracy, a dismissal of that charge would have resulted in Best’s immediate acquittal. For hours, he was questioned about certain meetings he had been at. The prosecution used an irritating technique where they first asked questions, and then showed proof. Fortunately, Best was able to keep a cool head and first check through the document book for the transcripts or memoranda mentioned before answering, instead of being baited into giving a false answer when there was proof to the contrary. When there were no documents, he cast doubt on the reliability of witnesses. Michael suspected he was lying half the time, but if the prosecution could not prove it, then it was on their heads.

Michael interjected from time to time, but the prosecution was generally correct, and there wasn’t much he could do. Nevertheless, Best handled himself well, even if he wasn’t a smooth speaker. He was a soldier, after all, not a politician. When the cross-examination ended, Michael allowed himself to feel a little bit of optimism, but he cautioned Best that they had by no means won with that display.

* * *

No witnesses were called for Krechet. As Michael had predicted, he made himself out to be a brainless weapon. He spoke in a heavy working-class accent and pretended to be a psychopath. Some observers thought he looked frightening, with his massive bulk filling up the entire witness stand, while others thought he looked more pathetic than anything. His endless shrugs infuriated the prosecution, especially since the cross-examination was being done by a defector from the Capitol who despised Krechet for his background alone. Despite having had no education beyond highschool, a respectable achievement for someone of his background but a sign of stupidity for the prosecutor, he had been found to be of above-average intelligence by Dr. Mallow, the psychiatrist. Michael could see that. There wasn’t much he could say in his defense, not when a list of every single person he had killed was read into evidence, but what he could say, he did. He compared himself to a police officer hunting down dangerous serial killers, and when combined with the superior orders defense and putative duress, the case became more complicated than Michael had expected.

No such complications existed for Talvian. Her slick protestations of ignorance were torn to shreds from every single direction possible, and there wasn’t much Gupta could do to help his client. If an atrocity had happened outside the jurisdiction of the Peacekeepers, there was proof of Talvian’s involvement in it. She blamed various conveniently dead subordinates, but was highly unconvincing. While the revelation that the majority of security cameras outside the Capitol had been fakes due to corruption was funny, it didn’t help Talvian in the long run. She stubbornly refused to play the fool or the corrupt incompetent, and neither did she use her uncommonly small stature to her advantage.

Thanks to going after her, Chaterhan had an advantage, but it rapidly dissipated after the court was reminded of the various witnesses who had suffered in his mines and factories. While his attempts to plead ignorance of the cruelties were at least within the realm of the halfway imaginable, they were still easily debunked by the prosecution. Dry documents about the Steelworks’ total control over towns where its mines and foundries were the sole employer were not as compelling, but Michael was extremely unsettled by how he and his grandmother, the previous owner, had been able to hire and fire town and even District mayors. Shaw tried to prove that he had merely acted like any other businessperson would have, but according to some journalists, she ended up merely indicting the entire capitalistic system with her words. Michael could understand where they were coming from. If forced labour and murderous working conditions were part of normal business practice, he feared for the new Panem.

Over the past months, Fisher had gained plenty of confidence, but it did not show in the courtroom. His words were more forceful than before, but he still spoke in a droning whisper that made Michael worry about the less experienced judges. Blues’ admission of responsibility for the Hunger Games shocked Michael, but she rapidly reneged on most of her words, only really admitting guilt for the dead Tributes and not the forced labourers, whom she claimed to have treated well. Blues made the most of her background - the general impression observers had of her was that she was a socially inept engineer, and it was the mantle of apolitical professional that she tried to put on herself. In it, she succeeded, to the envy of Cotillion.

They were halfway done, and the most major cases had been dealt with, but there were still twelve defendants to go. The historians had told everyone over and over that if the propagandists played their cards right, they would be impossible to convict, but if they didn’t, they’d be shoo-ins for noose. Lark was the latter. He spat political slogans and showed nothing but disdain for the prosecutor, who was from Eleven. Michael was disgusted by many of the things he said, and he agreed with the general consensus that he would be hanged just for his loathsomeness. Dr. Nurbeko could be seen giggling in the courthouse bar.

Thread managed to keep his composure despite a half-hour film of him personally whipping and hanging people in Eleven and Twelve. Unexpectedly for someone who had replied to the indictment with ‘For a soldier, orders are orders’, he used dark humour skillfully, amusing the audience against their will. Under the guidance of an exhausted Madaichik, he stressed the absurdity of the charges, not bothering to contest them, as it was impossible. His words were convincing, but in the end, Michael knew that the weight of the evidence would simply be too much.

On the surface, Ledge’s case had seemed easy, but there was no shortage of documents proving that the Ministry of Finance had been directly involved with the Hunger Games. Ledge’s ministry had had influence over policy in the Districts, tying him to various concrete policies such as deliberate manipulation of currency. In the Capitol, a dollar would have bought an extremely cheap bowl of soup, but in Eleven, the same soup would have cost a few cents. Taxes, too, had been more onerous for the poor. That much, everyone already knew from the prosecution phase, and just as Michael began to wonder how they were planning to justify the death penalty, the prosecutor reminded the court that medicine had cost the same in all Districts - even as healthcare had ostensibly been free there, just like in the Capitol. When Ledge took the stand, he was unable to avoid the murderous implications of that and the documents proving he had had a hand in those decisions, but Michael wasn’t convinced that his involvement merited the death penalty.

In the absence of the Minister of Education, the deputy had been tried, and Brack made the most of it. She pushed everything onto her superior until she appeared to be little more than a glorified secretary. No matter how nasty the examples of propaganda, she simply said that it had been the minister in charge of that, not her. While it was clear the tribunal would never buy it, she still put up a convincing front, making herself out to be the one left holding the bag after the real criminal had killed herself.

Dijksterhuis didn’t have that advantage. As Minister of Economics, the full weight of the Capitol’s economic policy was on her shoulders. She methodically went down the list and tried to justify each and every action, with a surprising amount of success. Nevertheless, the stark inequality both within and between Districts could not be explained rationally, and on top of that, she had been present at planning conferences for the Games. No matter how much she blamed subordinates, she sounded extremely unconvincing

Pollman may have been the deputy, but the mere name of his ministry - that of District affairs - was highly sinister. Quotas had been raised on his command, and crackdowns instigated. To make things worse, he had been present at the meeting where the destruction of Twelve had been planned instead of the minister. A prosecutor originally from the Capitol had been deliberately chosen to cross-examine him, but that just made things worse. The line of questioning remained stiffly correct, and there wasn’t much Hopkins could do to help her client.

When Toplak took the stand, the exact same thing happened. By this point, Michael just wanted it all to end already. Even though Best’s case had already been dealt with, he still needed to meet up with him regularly to plan rebuttals, and there was no sign of a respite for the defense lawyers. The deputy head of the Training Centre was defiance itself, as there was nothing else for her to say. She tried to prove that she had been confined to purely administrative roles, but such direct involvement with the Games was impossible to excuse away. This was the first time that the Games were dealt with directly after the collapse of the case about the exploitation of the Victors, and it showed. It was clear that the prosecution just wanted to forget about the Victors and focus more on the dead Tributes, who had already been overlooked in the defense portion of the trial. 

It struck Michael as strange that a sizable chunk of the prosecution had once lived in terror of being Reaped, but now that the functionaries of the regime were on trial, they barely even brought them up. The Games had only been a minor topic in the cases against Dovek and Oldsmith, and even with Blues, there had been a sort of detachment that had played in her favour. From what he could tell from the media, the general population also seemed content to forget that cruel pageantry. Michael wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it had been because everyone had known about the Games, which meant that they thought it didn’t need to be recorded, but the various local atrocities and criminal policies were only now becoming common knowledge.

Kirji did the exact same thing as Toplak. Since the case dealing with the Victors had fallen apart it was difficult for the prosecution to figure out what, exactly, Kirji had done in her role as deputy head of the department of Victors’ Affairs, but there was ample proof of her involvement with blackmail and murder, even if a worn-out Zhu managed to muddy the waters so much, it wasn’t clear from the record what the point of the blackmail and murder had been in the first place. Michael suspected that Kirji would be hanged for her title alone.

When Lee took the stand, it became immediately clear that his only chance was to hope that the tribunal was too tired to pay attention. The prosecution was able to clear up why, exactly, had people been forced to pay for insulin in the Districts when it had officially been free, but Lee didn’t even twitch. He muttered about budget issues and manipulated statistics in a drone only matched by that of the hapless Vargas. Michael had only contempt for the former Minister of Health, perhaps because of having seen the poor die of preventable diseases in his hometown.

Coll managed to liven up the proceedings by taking general responsibility for everything the government had done during his tenure as Minister of Resources. This sufficiently distracted the prosecution as they argued over the limits of that responsibility instead of focusing more on the onerous quotas he had implemented. The youthful former minister made the most of his appearance, claiming to have been a puppet forced to impress Snow to keep his position. 

Due to going last, Grass had been forced to listen to everyone blaming her Ministry of Justice for everything, and she was clearly glad to finally have the chance to fire back. She made the most of her legal training, dissecting the prosecution’s arguments with skill and emphasizing her respect for the rule of law. She had a point there, and her arguments were solid, but Michael remembered that it had been her ministry that had decreed that he needed to try small children for attempting to cross the border.

When it was announced that the next up would be Slice, Michael nearly did a spit-take. He had forgotten all about the propagandist sitting in the corner of the dock. Remembering Dr. Nurbeko’s words, he listened closely to her testimony. She made herself out to have been a mere talk-show host with zero real power, who had been told nothing about the actions of her codefendants and who could not be blamed for anything other than parroting the official line in a moderately successful talk-show that aired at an inconvenient time on top of everything else. Her official high position was explained as a desire to appear to be more than she actually had been. No matter how hard the prosecutor tried to prove that she had been Kren’s shadow, she batted the accusations away.

“I need a nap,” Low said as the tribunal adjourned. “For the next year.” The self-proclaimed devil’s advocate slumped onto the table, running a hand over her new legs.

Michael could agree with the sentiment. He shoved his things into his bag and left the courtroom. Teck was still working, but he needed a break. It was already past seven, as the session had gone long instead of having to continue the cross-examination the next day. Michael made his way to his billet without bothering to go eat dinner. He set his alarm for five the next morning, changed for bed, and was asleep within seconds. Preparing for rebuttals could wait a day.

* * *

“So, Dr. Wreath, what do you think?” Best asked with a small smile. 

Trying to block out the sounds of conversation all around him, Michael answered honestly. “If the judges are fair - and if the proceedings are anything to go by, they are - they won’t hang you.”

Best shook his head sadly. “I’d rather hang than go to prison,” he said. Michael’s incredulity must have shown on his face, for the former admiral elaborated. “I am seventy-seven years old. My wife is dead, and so are my children. Whether I die now or live a few years in prison makes no difference.”

“But what of your other family members?” Michael couldn’t believe Best was saying such a thing. “And prison sentences can be commuted. I read that-”

Best cut him off with a small gesture. “I refuse to go through that process. I would rather die with honour than eke out a couple years by lowering myself to the status of a common criminal. My relatives will understand.” He looked at Michael with a firm gaze. 

“But then what was the point of all of this?” Michael asked, confused. “Why not end it on your own terms, then?”

“What, pick the coward’s way out? No.” Best rested his hands on the table. They were steady, unlike Michael’s, who had to clasp his together to stop himself from shaking. “If they want to kill me, let them. Let the world know that this is how the new Panem treats its soldiers. But they will not make me dishonour myself.”

In the Coast Guard, words such as ‘honour’ and ‘duty’ had been tossed around meaninglessly. The trial had revealed the emptiness behind those slogans. And yet, Michael knew that his old commander truly believed what he said. “In that case,” he said, “there is nothing more for me to say to you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Best said.

* * *

As they sat down for the last time, Michael watched his client carefully. Best looked completely calm, and shot Michael a small smile. It was time for the verdicts. Bets had flown, with the general assumption being that there would be twenty-three death sentences and one acquittal. Michael had fought tooth and nail to make sure that was not the case, but if it was, then Best had no chance. Those who had spent time in the courtroom, however, thought there would be an even mix of sentences and a few acquittals, and the historians agreed. That gave Michael some hope.

The defendants looked tired and wrung out. All had lost weight, except for Talvian. Blues, Coll, and Slice looked almost adolescent while Chaterhan seemed to have aged a decade despite the four of them being almost the same age. The defendants doodled or chatted or stared off into space. Dovek, of course, lounged casually, taking up more space than the slender man should have. Next to him, Oldsmith looked almost wraithlike.

Baer looked slightly anxious. She fiddled with some papers, as if her client wasn’t already safe. Sanchez began to read, and Michael focused on his words. He had expected the series of guilty verdicts, but their uniformity still hurt.

“Defendant Septimius Verdant, you are found guilty on Counts One, Three, Four, and Five.” Michael kept his face smooth, but Verdant did not bother hiding his outrage.

“Defendant Caius Best, you are found guilty on Counts One, Three, and Four, and not guilty on Count Five.”

At least there was that. The Tribunal had seen logic and declared that the long-retired Best could not have been guilty of aggressive warfare. As the guilty verdicts were read out, it became clear that the only ones found guilty on Count Five were those who had directly participated in the firebombing of Twelve, which made Michael feel satisfied.

Slice was found not guilty, and Michael leaned over to shake Baer’s hand. “Congratulations,” he said sincerely. “It was all thanks to you.”

“Thank you,” she said.

There was a long break after that, but none of the defense lawyers left the courtroom, not even Baer. They talked to each other in low voices until the twenty-three defendants began to be brought in, one by one.

Dovek was first. When sentenced to death, he smirked at Sanchez as if he knew something the Chair didn’t and walked away with a spring in his step. Oldsmith’s life sentence came as a surprise to everyone, including Oldsmith. He looked completely lost and had to be led out by a guard. Bright snapped to attention in the dock, and when sentenced to death, looked like she wanted to salute. Instead, she simply nodded and marched out. Lux looked resigned. Cotillion slumped slightly but kept her head high. 

Blatt’s life sentence was also a surprise. She looked relieved, as did all of the lawyers. Perhaps it would be an even mix, and life sentences could always be commuted. Michael felt his heart speed up as Verdant limped into the dock. Life imprisonment. Michael decided he wasn’t cut out to be a defense lawyer, not with the crushing disappointment he felt. There was no way Verdant could get a lighter sentence than Best. As the older man walked calmly inside the courtroom, Michael tensed up, unable to meet his client’s eye.

“Defendant Caius Best, on the counts of the indictment on which you have been convicted, you are sentenced to imprisonment for life.” Michael nearly fell off his chair in relief. He looked up and saw that Best looked deeply unhappy, and remembered how he had claimed he’d prefer death to life. 

With a slightly lighter heart, Michael watched Best be led out and Krechet brought in. It hurt to watch someone he had seen nearly every day for a year be sentenced to death. Talvian was next. Looking like a grass doll, she didn’t bat an eye when sentenced to death. She turned on her heel and left the dock. Chaterhan’s eyes blazed with fury, and he looked almost offended by his death sentence. 

Blues looked slightly overwhelmed by the attention. When sentenced to twenty-five years, an audible murmur went up in the crowd. Fisher looked to be more shocked than Blues. Michael could only shake his head at her audacious gamble, and wondered what that boded for Coll. When sentenced to death, Lark looked ready to spit before storming out of the courtroom. Thread bowed when told he was to die. Ledge clutched the edge of the dock for support after finding out he had been sentenced to life. 

Brack sighed. Dijksterhuis looked around the courtroom, as if seeking support. Pollman stood frozen. Toplak projected an air of serenity. Kirji looked resigned and Lee looked sick, as did most of the people in the courtroom. Listening to all of those death sentences made Michael feel like he was going to throw up. 

Coll stumbled into the dock looking completely lost. When sentenced to twenty-five years, he sagged like an empty sack. He turned around and suddenly collapsed. Michael couldn’t hold back a chuckle. The lowest sentence of them all, and he fainted.

After Coll was revived, Grass was brought in. She took her life imprisonment as her due and filed out with her chin in the air. Nobody looked happy, not the judges, not the prosecution, not the audience.

“That concludes the task of this Inter-District Military Tribunal,” Sanchez said somberly, banging his gavel.

All of a sudden, everyone was talking to each other.

“Congratulations,” Low said, shaking Michael’s hand. “Nobody thought when the trial began that he would avoid the noose.”

Michael nodded. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out so well for you.”

Low waved his sympathy aside. “I knew what I was getting into.”

In the meanwhile, Fisher and Levy were the centres of attention. “Does this mean I win?” Fisher asked in a tremulous voice.

Madaichik rolled her eyes. “The Tribunal oh so generously decreed that your client will die in her own bed. That’s a victory in my book.”

“That doesn’t sound like much,” Levy pointed out.

Baer walked over to them. She looked as if a mountain had fallen off her shoulders. “You two convinced the Tribunal that your clients should be able to rejoin society someday. I did not expect that when I read the indictment, that’s for sure.” She looked around the table around which all of them were gathered. Only the “main” lawyers were there that day. “It’s still not over yet. Don’t give up so close to the end.”

* * *

“Are you sure?” Michael asked, holding back a sigh.

Best nodded, looking grave. “What else can I do?” he asked. “We’ve talked about this before. I’m an old man. Whether I live a few more years in prison makes no difference.”

“I cannot write that for you,” Michael admitted. “It goes against my ethics. I cannot, in good conscience, ask for my client to be executed.”

“I will write the appeal myself, then.” Best looked deadly serious, but there was a tiredness in his eyes. 

This was not what Michael had wanted. “It is your right.”

“Oh, don’t look so glum, Dr. Wreath!” Best said with a slight smile. “You did your best, and it was a damn sight better than anything anyone else could have done, of that I’m sure. Now, when are you planning to take off that uniform of yours? You know it’s got no future.”

Maybe it was unprofessional of him to think so, but Michael felt pity and respect for his former commanding officer in equal measure. “As soon as I’m off their payroll, it’ll be civvy street for me,” he said, returning the smile. “Now, is there anything else I could do for you?”

Best shook his head. “If they decline my appeal, don’t bother fighting. I’ve got nothing out there. Let me fade away out of the public eye.”

That, Michael could not do. “We’ll see,” he said. There was a silence for a few seconds. “It was an honour representing you.”

“And I thank you for all the hard work you and your team put in.” He stood up and nodded to Michael. “I wish you a good life.”

“Thank you.” He could think of no better way to respond. Michael walked out of the room, wondering when he’d see his client next. Maybe he could ask the historians for some subtle details he could keep in mind.

A week or so later, he woke up to the chiming of his phone. It was Baer, and it was also three in the morning. Michael leapt to wake up Alli and accepted the call.

“Everyone’s appeals were declined,” she said without a greeting. “The eight are on their way to prison as we speak.”

“And yours?” Michael asked reflexively. Slice had been detained almost immediately after her acquittal, and according to Baer, the charges were at least within the realm of the theoretically understandable this time.

“Still in jail,” Baer said dismissively. “In any case, that’s it. Let’s meet up tomorrow at nine. Goodbye.” She hung up.

“Well,” Alli said through a yawn, pushing his blanket off himself. “Have you ever had an imprisoned client?” Michael shook his head. “To be honest, this scares me. Such a high-profile case will never truly fade away. I don’t want to defend Verdant for the rest of his life.”

“Maybe he’ll be released early.”

Alli snorted. “Didn’t you listen to the historians? It all depends on geopolitics. Maybe the Supermax will be empty in fifteen years...or maybe it will remain open for forty. And given that they have to spare someone from the Gamemakers-” He sighed. “The youngest of them isn’t even thirty years old yet. What if he lives another seventy?”

“That would be of no concern to us.”

“Yes, because we’ll be dead by then,” Alli said with a laugh. “Still, though. All signs point to us having a chance. Though I wouldn’t want to be Verdant right now.”

* * *

Michael looked around, feeling a little bit out of place, as he was not the partying sort of person. They were in the luxurious restaurant that had been occupied by the prosecution during the trial. Their party had happened days ago, as everyone had been desperate to return home or to go visit family before coming back to assume their new roles. The defense, too, would soon be back in the archives. Michael already had a job lined up in Two.

“What did you think of Irons’ article?” Teck asked as they took a seat. There were two long tables for the twenty-four main lawyers and their plus-ones, the most important assistants. Michael sat down where he had always sat in the courtroom.

“She can really turn a phrase,” Michael said. “That line about the ‘unity of purpose’ we shared? Convincing stuff.”

Low rolled over to the head of the half-empty table. She still wasn’t entirely comfortable on her new legs. “Convinced the IDC, too. I read the indictment from the Researchers’ Case.”

“I thought they’d give up and go home,” Shaw’s main assistant said, “but now they’re planning on holding even more trials. They’re crazy.”

Michael looked around the table. It was laden with salads, sliced meats, cheese, bread, and all sorts of vegetables fresh, stewed, and pickled, as well as various curries - and a lot of alcohol. Remembering how his group of friends had celebrated the end of exams in university, he hoped it would be at least half less crazy, but the chances of that were slight. After a year of non-stop work, the lawyers would go full-out.

“No pastries?” Teck asked. “Pity.”

The tables filled up slowly. When the last of them arrived, Low stood up, leaning on the table with one hand. She still wasn’t fully used to her new legs. “This is an end,” she said somberly, “and yet it is not. Our task is over, but we still have jobs to do. Out of curiosity, how many of you don’t have a job lined up yet?” No hands went up. Everyone was either returning to their regular practice or had already been snapped up for another trial, IDC or District. “So this is less of a goodbye, and more of a well-deserved break.” She let go of the table and poured herself a glass of wine. Michael wondered if losing both legs decreased one’s alcohol tolerance. “First off, I would like to propose a toast to our assistants. We could never have done as well as we did without them.”

Michael would drink to that gladly. He poured himself half a glass of wine and smiled at Teck, who would be joining him in Two and working on a case in the same trial as him. They would be renting an apartment together, as saving money outweighed the embarrassment of having his parents ask when the wedding would be every time they saw him. “To our assistants!” he joined in the chorus, and took a small sip. Teck smiled and looked at the ground.

That done, they could eat. Teck visibly struggled to not pile her plate high and then devour everything in one go. Michael took a spoonful of each salad, unable to decide which one to go with. The bread, too, was extremely varied, and he smiled at the sight of a small loaf that looked just like the kind he had grown up eating.

A few minutes later, as Teck piled a slice of expensive Two bread with smoked sausage and stewed eggplants, Shaw’s assistant rose up to offer a toast to the main lawyers. “I don’t know how you people managed to stand at that lectern and read,” he said with a chuckle. “Just stepping into the courtroom gave me stage fright.”

“The trick was to sit,” Low said. Everyone laughed at that.

Still laughing, Teck toasted Michael with a glass of mineral water. He was surprised by the choice, but it made sense if he thought about it. Someone with such a lack of self-control could not succeed in life without knowing how to get around it. “To our what’s-his-face come again,” she said.

“I’m sure what’s-his-face never had to worry about a conspiracy to raise the price of antiretroviral drugs,” Michael muttered into his spicy seaweed salad. Teck laughed as if she had never heard anything funnier and took a spoonful of chicken curry from a bowl.

As they ate and talked, more toasts were made. To Baer, for winning her case. To Fisher and Levy, for forcing the tribunal to recognize nuance. To Pinto, Andric, Alli, Michael, Desai, and Jamieson, for achieving the goal of any lawyer in a death penalty case. And to the other fifteen, for transforming the courtroom from the antechamber to the gallows to a place where justice was done, no matter how flawed some of the points were.

Pinto got carried away there and rambled on for a while about why Counts One and Five should never have existed in the first place before finally running out of steam, tossing back another shot of plum brandy, and falling down into his chair.

As some of the celebrants got more and more carried away, the toasts became more and more bizarre. They toasted the defendants one by one, followed by the proprietor of Uncle Ray’s (the greatest person in the world), the archivists who had helped them find documents (who deserved a pay raise of a thousand percent or so), particularly notable witnesses (it was always funny when they said something the prosecution hadn’t expected), the judge from Twelve (who deserved better), and inter-District cooperation (with which anything could be achieved), which was rather strange, as all of them but Michael and Teck were from the Capitol.

Dessert was brought in, much to Teck’s delight. She didn’t need alcohol to behave strangely, bouncing around and giggling like a small child despite drinking only water and juice. She looked around the table intently before taking a brownie, a small tart, and a slice of pecan pie. “This is all great,” she said, sipping her tea. “Not as fancy as before, but still good.”

“I wouldn’t go back to before for all the gold in the treasury,” Gupta muttered before dropping his head back onto his elbow.

“Neither would I,” Michael whispered. He sipped his tea and nibbled on a blackcurrant. Despite the fact that it was still winter, they had fresh fruit. He reached over and used a large spoon to load up his plate with more berries.

“Let’s get out of here,” Teck said as she polished off the pie. “Before someone throws up or starts smashing furniture.”

Remembering the last time he had been to an office New Year’s party, Michael decided that was a good idea. He quickly finished off the berries and pulled on his jacket. Several had already left, so at least they wouldn’t be first to go. He was disappointed that he wouldn’t get to witness with his own eyes the end result of Fisher downing endless glasses of wine - the man was bright-red and hadn’t stopped laughing for the past five minutes - but he was sure someone would inform him in the morning.

“Sure,” he said. “Just let me stop by the bathroom first.”

As he washed his hands, Michael stared at his reflection. He wore no headgear, but he still looked like something from the past. He had always liked how the uniform flattered him, but now, it seemed to Michael that it just made him look dangerous. Teck, at least, looked like she had stepped out of a caricature of a desk officer. He just looked like the sort of person that still haunted the dreams of people all over Panem.

“I bought the tickets,” Teck said as they walked into the cold night. “We leave in two days.”

Michael didn’t look forward to finishing up the packing. “I still haven’t gotten my civilian clothes,” he said. Both of them were officially minor offenders, but even though they were technically not allowed to hold their ranks, nobody had tried to tell them to take off their shoulderboards.

“Me neither.” Teck ran a hand down her coat, which was too loose on her. “At least it will actually fit me, instead of hanging like a sack.” She sighed. “That’s what I tell myself to make it easier to let go.”

“I’ve got nothing,” Michael admitted. “Spent too long in the white. Once I finish with the case, how can I switch over to a local court and deal with drunken fights?”

Teck shrugged. “Won’t be much of a change for me. I never liked all this stress in any case.”

“Then why are you going to Two?”

“Because it’s a job offer,” she shrugged. “And it’s Two, so a former military judge will win more respect.”

Michael imagined himself drifting into civil law. It felt wrong. He had spent too much time trying children for treason to be able to function in a sane system. “I think I’ll stay a war-crimes lawyer,” he said, chasing away the mental image of himself trying children all over again. “I’ll have Best’s case to push, and I’m sure every last secret-prison guard will beg to have me represent them.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Teck said, shoving her hands in her pockets. “I’ll get my category lowered, become a judge again, and you’ll argue to me why your client is not guilty.”

That was a much better mental image.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Best’s strange appeal is based on a real-life incident and is in-universe a direct result of a guard telling him about it (though he’d never admit it). Erich Raeder, former Nazi admiral, asked to be shot in lieu of life imprisonment. The appeal was declined. He was released nine years later due to health issues. On that note, the line about the Supermax potentially being closed in fifteen years or still open - in forty was inspired by Sugamo and Spandau respectively. All the Japanese war criminals were released by the late fifties, but in Germany, Rudolf Hess remained in prison until his suicide in _1987_. If anyone wants, I can write an essay about that in the comments and recommend you tens of books to read.
> 
> The party in the end may or may not have been inspired by parties I’ve been to myself. I do not confirm or deny.
> 
> If you want to know what happened to Best after this, read my longfic :)


End file.
